


The Heart of a Knight

by Imhiriel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Career Change, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Gondor, Justice, Minas Tirith, Politics, Post-War of the Ring, Recovery, Third Age, city life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-02-03
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imhiriel/pseuds/Imhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From being called a recreant to being appointed as Captain of the White Company – This story takes a look at Beregond, his family and his friends after this change in fortune, and how they experienced the Return of the King and the dawning of the New Age. WiP.</p>
<p>This story is currently on hiatus. Although the chapters build on each other, each ends at a reasonable stopping point (no cliffhangers, not many loose threads, promise!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King's Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> MEFAwards 2008: 3rd Place – Genres: Drama: Incomplete
> 
>  
> 
> _This story is currently on hiatus. Although the chapters build on each other, each ends at a reasonable stopping point (no cliffhangers, not many loose threads, promise!)._
> 
>  
> 
> _My guesstimate is that there are still two or three more chapters missing before the epilogue (which has been written already mumble years ago)._

Beregond entered the quiet corridor leading from the Hall of the Kings with long measured strides This was a quite the feat, considering his state of mind: Inwardly, he was feeling shaken to his very core. His thoughts and emotions were reeling from the swift turn of his fortunes. He had gone from living for over seven weeks not only with war and battles like all of Gondor’s citizens, but also with the personal threat of direst consequences for his deeds in Rath Dínen – up to and including the death penalty – to being made Captain of the Guard of a prince... and Faramir being that prince to top it all!

Not only was he apparently forgiven for violating an order and, far more severe, spilling the blood of good men, men who had been convinced that they were in the right in obeying their Steward’s orders and seeing _him_ as a traitor. Not only this he had to comprehend and process. He had even received a promotion, to a post for which he had absolutely no experience.

It was simply too difficult, near impossible to take it all in right now.

Despite his short interview with the King in Cormallen four weeks ago, in which Elessar had assured him that he would do all in his power for Beregond not to have to face the death penalty as laid down by law, Beregond had not been able to let go of his doubts. The plain fact was that he did not know this man who was to be his king – a king nobody had _really_ believed would ever return – and he did not know if King Elessar would actually have the power to reduce the prescribed penalty for his deeds to anything less severe. Beregond had thought, and still did, that it would not and _should_ not be too easy even for a king to change time-honoured law. And all the support and encouragement he had received from fellow soldiers and other friends had done little for his anxieties, even while comforting him that others were able to see extenuating circumstances and thus perceive his acts in a more favourable light.

Living all these weeks in limbo, a time of suspended judgement, had been hard for him; in addition to his own remorse and the relentless questions of his own conscience, the war and especially the battle at the Morannon – and the march filled with dread and little hope which had preceded it – had taken their toll on him, as it had on all the soldiers. The strain had manifested itself in deep furrows on his brows and dark circles under his eyes. He even thought he had detected the first silver in his hair just yesterday while shaving.

Smiling crookedly at himself for having such frivolous thoughts in a moment like this, he made his way through the door on his left that would lead him to the little courtyard where his family would be waiting with some friends.

He mused that his fate had possibly been even harder on his young son than it had been on himself. Bergil, who had stayed in Minas Tirith during the last onslaught of Sauron as one of merely a handful of boys running errands or delivering messages, had lived through all the horror war inflicted on land and people. In addition to that, the loss of his mother who had died in childbirth not two years ago and the death of his newborn sister just scant hours afterwards was a matter still raw in his memories.

Beregond had wanted to send the boy south with the wains to his grandfather in Lossarnach, but the boy had pleaded so fervently not to be parted from his father that he had not had the heart to deny him, even though he had not been convinced that it was a good idea. Certainly it would have been so much easier on the child not to know the war and its ghastly manifestations this close at hand. And later Beregond would have given almost anything to spare Bergil the knowledge of what potentially lay in store for his father. He worried what long-term costs these events would have on his son.

He only hoped his own father Baranor had been kept in ignorance of it all, but knowing the swiftness of rumours he was not confident on that score. He resolved to write a long letter to Lossarnach as soon as he had a moment to spare, although he rather thought Bergil would monopolise him for the near future. Not that he objected to that, thought Beregond ruefully. He needed the closeness to his son for himself, as well.

Rounding the last corner, he left the building and stepped through the shadowed arches framing the little courtyard.

  
~*~*~*~  


As if conjured by his last thoughts, his eyes fell on Bergil sitting huddled on a bench, the anxious expression that had never seemed to leave his face for the past weeks evident, despite his brave attempts to hide it behind an impassive mask. Iorlas held him comfortingly by the shoulder, but Beregond could see that his brother-in-law was as worried as Bergil.

As soon as they caught sight of him, their gazes raked him from head to foot in swift appraisal, as if wanting to assure themselves that no one had cut off any limbs and no other physical punishment had been meted out.

“Father!” cried Bergil then, springing up from the bench and hurtling himself into his father’s arms. Beregond’s throat closed a moment, completely overcome now that he held his boy in his arms. He hugged him tightly, only slightly loosening the embrace when Bergil wriggled a bit in discomfort.

Iorlas had followed at a considerably slower pace, but was now also squeezing his shoulders, eyes searching his face. Beregond was only capable of a small smile and a reassuring nod over the head of his son, but it seemed it was enough for the moment. Iorlas let his breath out in a slow, soft sigh, and relaxed visibly.

He was still too pale, Beregond noted with concern, and silently questioned the wisdom of his being up and out of the Houses of Healing. The wound, incurred at the Black Gate by the axe of an Easterling who had narrowly missed severing Iorlas’ shield-arm, was surely still quite tender and painful. But he had to admit that he was very glad that Iorlas had been here for Bergil, and for the mostly silent support that he had given them both in their tense situation, despite his condition.

Stroking through Bergil's forever unruly curls, he found himself murmuring, over and over, “Lad, all is well, do not worry. Nothing will happen to me. The King has pardoned me. It is all right now...” Gradually he felt his own words affecting him as well, melting away some of the fears he had held under an almost desperate hold for so long.

After a time, he cleared his throat and moved Bergil gently away from him, gesturing at Iorlas, who had sat down again on the bench. “Let us go someplace where your uncle can sit down more comfortably and we can talk. I promise I will tell you all that has happened today in Court. Very exciting, all things considered, and not only for me.” He wiggled his eyebrows at his son, and managed to coax a smile from him, still a little tremulous, but genuine.

Iorlas’ face lightened up as well. He chafed at being cooped up in the Houses of Healing, far away from the exciting events that seemingly followed one another in lightning-quick succession these days –although Beregond secretly wondered how anyone around garrulous Ioreth would not always be provided with all the latest gossip and could complain about being shut off from current affairs.

Some of Beregond’s comrades and other friends had been present in the Hall of the Kings and had in the meanwhile obviously told their fellows who had waited with Iorlas and Bergil what had passed within. They had apparently held back until this point to give the family a little privacy, but now came over to him to proffer their congratulations.

The first to come forward was Diegan, one of Beregond’s oldest friends in the guard.

“Beregond, I am so glad for you,” he said quietly, smiling at him and taking his forearm in a hard grip. Then he looked down at Bergil and asked, “I suppose that means I will have to move out of your house immediately so you can have it all for yourselves again?”

Bergil still looked rather dazed and could not answer. Instead it was Beregond who responded, “I would be happy for you to stay as long as you like. But will your own family not be waiting for you to finally return, now that they have all come back again?”

Diegan had been released from the Houses of Healing a while ago after an ugly leg wound. He had, on Beregond’s request, stayed with Bergil while Beregond was away from Minas Tirith, and since his own family, apart from his brothers-in-law, had left the city to find refuge with some distant relatives in the south quite early on when it became apparent that his wife was pregnant. Bergil was quite fond of Diegan, so it had been a great relief for Beregond to know that his son was not only not left alone, but had a friend staying with him, and sparing him having to leave his familiar surroundings.

”I rather fancy Diegan is not so eager to return to his family,” called Malgelir, another comrade from the Third Company, striding to the front of the throng, his tawny-haired head as always a startling contrast to the typical Númenórean dark hair of most of his peers.

Passing Diegan who waved a fist at him in mock warning, he came to stand before Beregond and delivered a hardy blow on his back that made him stagger.

“You know how they all are: The whole lot of them will all converge on him the moment he sets foot in the door, and fuss and bustle and quickly drive him mad! I wager he was rather glad for having a little peace and quiet in your house, Beregond.”

His words were greeted with a great shout of laughter. Diegan lived in his parents’ home, together with not only his parents, his own wife and now two children, but with a brother and sister and _their_ families, as well as his youngest sister, Malgelir’s bride-to-be. They all loved each other dearly, but the situation was the source of endless, good-natured teasing by his comrades.

Consequently, Diegan simply rolled his eyes and answered dryly, “Yes, I am sure I will wish to have stayed in the Houses of Healing to enjoy the stillness and solitude there. Not to mention the unobtrusive and taciturn services of some of the healers.” After waiting for the fresh laughter to subside – he, too, had been in the healing wing Mistress Ioreth was in charge of – he said to Beregond, “Seriously, I think you two will have much to talk about, undisturbed. I think it would be better if I leave you to it. And, I admit, I begin to miss my home, hard as it may be to credit it.” He winked at Malgelir.

Beregond acquiesced to Diegan’s suggestion, and tried to convey with a look how deeply grateful he was for all he had done for them. Diegan seemed to understand, and nodded briefly before he stepped back, pulling Malgelir with him, to let the next congratulator approach.

It was Mairen, who had been a good friend of his wife. She seemed at a loss for words, merely looked him over seriously, and then hugged him fiercely.

Beregond held her for a long moment, feeling her trembling, and blinked a few times to clear his eyes, which kept wanting to blur. He swallowed hard, then whispered in her ear, “It is all right, Mairen. Thank you very much for coming, and for visiting Bergil after your return to the city.”

She smiled tremulously up to him and then released him, making way in her turn for his other friends.

The back-slapping and hand-wringing went on for some time, many of his friends clearly at a loss for words in their relief, and to his amazement Beregond noticed even stoical Targon surreptitiously wiping his eyes.

Then he caught sight of his captain.

The others fell back, leaving Eradan to step forward until he was facing Beregond. The latter unconsciously straightened, unsure what to expect from the Captain, whom he had last met such a short while ago when he had been escorted by him to the Hall of the Kings to receive his judgement.

It was impossible to read his grave expression with its deep scar marring the left cheek, impossible to guess if he agreed with the King’s decision or not. The Captain nodded, once, flicking his strange, light-brown eyes over the assembly. Then he said, “Beregond, upon the King’s command, you are released from all duty for the next four days. After that, you are required to present yourself to Steward Faramir at the third hour of the following day.” His gaze then turned to Bergil, who had stepped close to his father again, clutching his arm anxiously. “Bergil, the Warden of the Old Guesthouse is already informed that you are still off-duty for the time being.” With these words, and a further nod which included the whole assembly, he turned and strode off.

The others, who had watched the exchange with faintly worried expressions, seemed as if released by the Captain’s departure, and converged again upon the family.

After a time Iorlas tapped his brother-in-law’s side from his place on the bench and said in an undertone, “I am sorry to disturb the festivities, but I fear I must go back to the Houses of Healing.”

Beregond looked at him closely and nodded in agreement when he noticed Iorlas’ pinched expression and the light sweat on his face, which had all of a sudden lost even its last trace of colour.

Bergil, with the air of an expert, piped up, “It is time for your medicine, Uncle!”

Iorlas rolled his eyes in annoyance at the reminder, which prompted Malgelir to add slyly, “Bergil, you will have to make sure your uncle actually drinks it all.”

”Thanks ever so much, Malgelir!” Iorlas groused.

Beregond winked at his son, who grinned back unrepentantly.

The others, not wanting to tax Iorlas unduly, left with many cheery waves and the promise to celebrate properly at a later date. Only Diegan stayed, to help Beregond in supporting Iorlas to his room in the Houses of Healing. There he left as well, to prepare for moving out of Beregond’s home to return to his own family.

  
~*~*~*~  


Once they had reached their destination, Beregond helped Iorlas to shed his clothes and crawl under the blanket in his nightshirt, sending Bergil to get the healer with the medicine and ask for a jug of water for them all.

After a short while the boy came back from his errand, bringing Ioreth with him, who had insisted on accompanying him personally. She brought not only the medicine, but also a servant who carried in addition to the requested water, a beaker of sweet ale, as well as a quite varied plate of bread, cheeses, cold meats and some apples. While handing out the medicine to Iorlas, who swallowed it with a grimace, and a cup with the juice of an orange to Bergil, who sipped his drink with considerably more appreciation and wide, delighted eyes at the rare treat, she was living up to her reputation and explained at great length how happy she had been to hear of Beregond’s fortune, how she had brought the food because she felt certain that they were hungry after all this excitement, how all growing boys had to eat properly, how the oranges had come all the way from Harad with the embassy and how the King himself had personally ordered for them to be sent to the Houses of Healing.

“He is a great healer, the Lord Elfstone, just like I said, he has ‘the hands of a healer’ (1). He suggested how the fruits would be beneficial for all the patients, and how the juice should be pressed for those too weak to chew. We have known of this usage of oranges before, of course, but as they are so rare to come by even here in Minas Tirith, it was good of him to remind us. And he ordered that the fruits were not merely for the patients, no. The King ordered explicitly that the staff should have some, too. As I always said, the Lord Elfstone has a golden heart...” (2)

After renewing Iorlas’ bandages, chattering all the while in a never-ending but oddly soothing stream of words, she left them with a final tousling of Bergil’s hair, smiling kindly.

The boy grimaced surreptitiously, but waited with the futile task of trying to bring his hair in some kind of order until Ioreth was gone. He had grown quite fond of the old woman in the past months, his father knew, when Bergil had so often been in and out of the Houses of Healing for this or that errand.

Then he eyed his father and demanded, a little impatiently, that he finally begin with his account of today’s happenings.

Beregond, highly amused, considered delaying his report still further with insisting on eating first, but let this plan fall at once – it would be inconsiderate of him to let them wait any longer after they had gone through so much worried waiting already. And he did plan to let them wait a while in any case, preceding the report of his own case in favour of relating news of a more general import. Furthermore, he suspected that his desire for teasing them was more a consequence of the giddy relief he was still feeling, hence he tried to rein in his self-control once more.

He drank a cup of ale to moisten his throat before remarking, “After all, you already know the gist of it: I am still alive.” They greeted this feeble attempt at a joke with the groans it deserved, but he continued unabashedly, “and you overheard my fellows in the courtyard. Surely they were enthusiastic enough for you to understand them.”

“But it was all so confusing!” complained Bergil in frustration, grabbing one of the apples. “All you said was that you are pardoned and that everything would be all right. But what did the King _say_ , exactly? And the others just now – I think they said some other things happened as well. But I could not understand very much, they all kept talking at once – and you know Auntie Mairen, she always speaks so softly you can hardly hear her! I think that now I understand even less than before!”

Beregond had to grin at this outburst. He shrugged nonchalantly and drawled, “Well, you will just have to wait until I come to the point myself.”

Bergil specifically tried to look unimpressed at first, to get his father to jump directly to the part that was most important to the family, but Beregond noticed that both his son and Iorlas soon were drawn into the flow of his tale.

“And he has pardoned the Easterlings? Sent them home free, just like that?” His brother-in-law frowned upon hearing of this decision. He had refused Beregond’s offer of the food, only downing two full cups of water in quick succession to get rid of the bitter taste of the medicine.

“Well, if he pardons the Haradrim, he cannot very well punish the soldiers from Khand, can he?“ countered Beregond in a reasonable tone, although he knew this was not the point of contention.

Iorlas rubbed at his arm in an unconscious gesture, wincing when he pressed too hard on the still healing wound. Beregond gently took his hand and drew it away from the bandages.

“But why does he pardon them at all?” Bergil wanted to know. “They attacked us and killed many men!”

Iorlas looked as if he wanted to ask the same question.

Beregond sighed inwardly; it was not a question he felt able to answer, as his own feelings on the matter were ambiguous as well, and, naturally, he did not know the reasoning of the King and his counsellors. But he owed it to his son to try. And to Iorlas as well, who had lost even the last long-lingering traces of his youthful exuberance since his sister’s death and the last great battles. The siblings had been very close, and Iorlas’ posting in the first circle had brought him face-to-face with the enemy, far closer than Beregond had been himself before the final battle in Mordor. From the little Iorlas had told, or what Beregond had overheard in nightmare mutterings sitting beside his sickbed, he had been in a part of the town where the gruesome barrage with the heads of their fallen comrades had come down. No wonder the King’s decision did not sit well with him.

To give himself time to formulate a helpful answer, Beregond took refuge with the food tray. He picked a piece of aromatic cheese, a rasher of bacon, and put it all between two slices of bread. Then, noticing his son’s wistful gaze, he gave it to Bergil, making another one for himself. Just like he used to do when his son had still been a small child. A look of perfect understanding passed between them.

After the Standing Silence, and between bites of this impromptu sandwich, he explained slowly, “Well... Look at it this way: We have won, and if those men return home, they will bring news of their sound defeat and of the downfall of the Dark Lord with them. This should frighten the leaders who are responsible for sending the soldiers to attack us, and weaken the confidence of their people. And now they are utterly decimated. They are no longer supported by masses of Orcs, and any magical devices of the Enemy have vanished with him, as we have been told by Mithrandir. From what I know, the alliances among these diverse peoples and with the creatures of... of Sauron were tenuous at best. Without him to control them, many will presumably begin to fight amongst themselves, and so stand alone and separated against the combined might of the West.”

He had actually hesitated a moment before speaking out loud the name of their vanquished foe, but talks in Cormallen with a lot of different people had made him appreciate the notion that to fear to call things or persons by their name was to give them a hold on you, to increase the dread they induced.

After swallowing his last bite and cleaning his fingers on a napkin he concluded, “Maybe they will be so frightened of us that we will have peace for a time. Maybe, and I admit I have a hard time imagining it, but just maybe they will abandon their aggressions now because they _want_ it, because they see that to strive for peaceful relations is the better way. Do you not think that would be a good idea?” That last was addressed particularly to his son.

Bergil frowned, thinking through all his father had said. Hesitantly he answered, “I guess so. I mean... Obviously it would be good if there were no longer any fighting. But it is nevertheless unjust if they can just go even though they killed our soldiers.”

Iorlas and Beregond exchanged sober glances.

The latter began, slowly, groping his way through this extraordinarily thorny topic, “Bergil, although they were our enemies, they are not necessarily evil. Soldiers fight, and if two persons fight, only one can win, which often means the death of the other one. Soldiers have to follow their orders; if they are told to attack someone, they must obey. It is truly horribly difficult to say, ‘No, I will not obey these orders’ if one disagrees with them. And it happens almost never without dire consequences. If not, if soldiers would be allowed to argue and question every order, it would seriously disrupt the discipline of the army, lead to inefficiency and could, ultimately, lead to chaos and anarchy. It is especially difficult to decide in the heat of battle, or in similarly urgent or confusing situations. Most of the time, soldiers often merely know that the enemy is the enemy; they might not know the exact reasons or the detailed circumstances why they are fighting there and then. Soldiers who _do_ question or disobey their orders nonetheless must be prepared to face a very severe cost for their disobedience.”

Bergil had become very still during the last words, clearly re-examining his own father’s situation in this light. He put down the rest of his sandwich, moved closer to Beregond and groped for his hand.

Beregond gave his son’s hand a firm squeeze, to remind him that all was well. Softly, he resumed, “Son, it is hard for me to speak of this, but I must tell you: Sometimes the right thing to do _is_ to disobey certain orders if they are wrong and you can see that they are wrong, even if you know what the consequences will be – and you must then be prepared to accept those consequences! But you must listen to your conscience and think of all you know of the facts and the circumstances before acting. I am sorry that I left my post without the necessary permission, and I _deeply_ regret...“ He had to clear his throat before he was able to continue, “...I regret from the bottom of my heart that I killed those men in Rath Dínen. But I am fairly sure I would do it again in the same circumstances. Even had the outcome not been as favourable as it is now – and you know I could not have _known_ that it would indeed turn out as well as it now has.”

“...Which you still have not revealed to us, brother mine,” Iorlas remarked, lightening the bleak mood reigning in the chamber at this moment.

With a grateful look at his late wife’s brother, Beregond squeezed Bergil’s cold hand again.

“Well, I am still not through with the rest of the news, am I?”

  
~*~*~*~  


Consequently, he described all he had been able to register from the back row even in the distracted state he had been in at the time: Of the embassies which had come from all over Middle-earth. Of the rewards that had been given to the valorous. And he reported on the releasing of the slaves of Mordor and how they had been gifted with the lands round about Lake Núrnen (3), news that was met with incomprehension by his audience.

“If _I_ had been a slave in Mordor, the _last_ place I would want to be and to stay is close to that wretched place,“ said Iorlas with utter conviction, and Bergil nodded in agreement.

“From what I can tell, the lands around the lake are quite fertile – it is where the food for the armies of Mordor had been produced. My best guess is that many of these slaves do not have a home to return to anymore, or are afraid of returning, or have built a home there, despite their position as slaves. A further reason may be this: They have invested so much blood, sweat, tears and pain in these lands, now they finally have a chance to garner a just profit by it. For my part, I, too, find it hard to comprehend, and perhaps there will not be that many people who _do_ indeed decide to stay there.”

Bergil finally relinquished his father’s hand to pour himself a cup of water, seeming a little disappointed that the exotic juice had been limited to one cup only.

Beregond, who was headed to the part in the narration that was eagerly expected by his audience, allowed himself one final detour to tease his brother-in-law. Knowing that Iorlas was quite fascinated with the exploits of the White Lady of Rohan, he reported, “The Rohirrim will depart in the next few days. Éomer King wants to start setting his lands in order as soon as possible.”

“And Théoden King?” Iorlas wanted to know. “Will he be buried here in Gondor?”

“No, he will not. He will stay in Rath Dínen for the time being, but the Rohirrim will make all the preparations for an appropriate burial in their own land and then return here in two months’ time to escort Théoden with all honours to his final resting place. It is expected that this funeral cortège will be joined by many nobles and important personages from many different lands and races.” Then, in a casual tone, he added, “The Lady Éowyn will accompany her brother back to Rohan as well.”

Iorlas’ eyes widened in his surprise, and his face showed disappointment and regret.

But it was Bergil who voiced his feelings, obviously as upset as his uncle at losing the presence of the White Lady who had been a welcome guest of the Houses of Healing for so long, and who had spoken kindly to him a few times.

“But I thought she and Lord Faramir wanted to marry! Has something happened between them?”

“Not as far as I know. The lady wanted to accompany her brother to help him, I gather, and to say farewell to her home before her upcoming marriage. I dare say Lord Faramir has similar feelings right now as you two.” His eyes twinkled merrily.

Bergil blushed bright red, while Iorlas hid behind an extremely dignified expression, which however resolved itself after only a few seconds in a bashful grin, dimples deepening in his cheeks.

  
~*~*~*~  


In a seemingly abrupt shift of topic, Beregond asked then, “Iorlas, how long until you are fully healed?”

Iorlas eagerly seized on this topic to distract from his embarrassment. “The Warden said I could leave in a week, but I still have to take care of my arm for a few weeks after that, and I will have to return here regularly for some further treatment. I guess I will be ready to resume my duties in two months’ time, at the latest.”

Beregond fought to suppress the grin that was trying to break out with his next words. “So... Would you have any interest in changing units again and work for the Captain of the White Company of the Prince of Ithilien?”

Total silence greeted this question.

Then: “White Company?“ Bergil asked baffled.

“Prince of Ithilien?“ was Iorlas’ equally puzzled query.

Seemingly ignoring their bewilderment, Beregond elaborated in an earnest manner, “The Captain of the White Company is looking for good people for his staff and I am sure that, as a former Ranger, you would fit right in, Iorlas.”

Frowning, Iorlas sat up in bed, cramming some pillows behind his back with his sound hand to help him stay upright. “ _I_ am sure I have never heard of a ‘White Company’ before! And even if there _is_ one such company, should you not discuss it with their captain before you offer someone a place among their ranks?”

Blandly, Beregond answered, “I do not usually discuss things with myself.”

Seeing their utter confusion, he could not hold back his laughter any longer. It rang through the chamber, even resonating slightly in the crockery on the table. Tracking the thoughts in their open faces, the slowly dawning comprehension as they finally came to the right conclusion, was pure delight.

“The King made you Captain? Really?” Bergil hugged his father with shining eyes.

Iorlas made a gesture suggestive of a salute. But the confusion had not abated, and he pressed for an explanation. “White Company? And since when, by Tulkas, is there a Prince of Ithilien? And whoever is that supposed to _be_?”

Now the truth was finally out, Beregond downed a new cup of ale in practically one gulp, returning his child’s embrace one-armed, but ignoring his brother-in-law, who settled himself with evidently little patience but a lot of goodwill to wait for him. Obviously Iorlas guessed that Beregond was suddenly overwhelmed himself all over again by this revelation, as if only saying it out loud had truly given it substance and reality.

Somehow he had spent all his words for the time being, and instead let go inwardly of his hold on his feelings. He practically revelled in it, in this thrilling sensation, light-headed and light-hearted, which he had experienced, on and off, since his doom had been proclaimed which had resulted in such a joyous reversal of his grim expectations.

He still could not grasp the fact that _he_ should be a captain, a captain of a whole new unit, in a completely new environment. He was exhilarated, not merely for his reprieve, but also for the extraordinary chance he was given.

Yes, he did wonder if this high honour was not beyond him. As thankful as he was, he felt overwhelmed with it and, to be honest, uncomfortable when thinking of the events that had led to this distinction: the disobedience, the fight, the loss of life, and the grief of the bereaved.

Once again, he tried to push this to the back of his mind for the time being; he knew he was incapable at the moment to cope with all that when his family was here and was in such a glad mood.

Concentrating therefore on more practical matters, he thought of the high responsibility the task would entail – also a source of anxiety, but less fraught with regret and doubt. He was, after all, merely a man from the rank and file and had neither lordship nor had ever held a rank in which he would have had the chance to gain expertise in leadership (4). He hoped that during the upcoming appointment with Prince Faramir, he would have the chance to discuss the requirements of this assignment.

‘Prince Faramir’. The thought of Faramir’s new rank and that he would henceforth have the chance to work closely with him gave Beregond a warm glow in his heart and, he admitted it freely to himself, a little bit of pride for his small part in saving such an admirable man. Preserving his skills, his qualities, his virtues, both as a man and a captain – in future as Steward and Prince as well – for the good of this new realm. There was certainly no man in Gondor worthier of such honour and distinction, he thought. That the new king would know this and act so quickly was further evidence in Beregond’s eyes – if after his own experience he had had need of one – that Elessar would indeed rule with justice and sure discernment.

Dimly he became aware that Iorlas was distracting Bergil from his father’s on-going silence by talking with him about this surprising news. The name ‘Mistress Almarian’ fell; apparently Iorlas had asked his nephew who would be the first he would tell of his father’s good luck, and the cook of the errand-boys’ quarters in the Rath Celerdain was near the top of Bergil’s list, it seemed.

Beregond smiled to himself hearing this, but he felt not yet ready to leave off his pondering, resuming with his list of people whom he might ask for advice on his new situation.

Perhaps he would be granted an audience with the King. Elessar might have certain notions for how he wanted this new unit to be built and run. And as the long-time Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, surely Faramir himself would be the ideal expert to turn to, as well.

Beregond felt that, additionally, Mablung might be a great help. On the march to the Morannon, he had had opportunity to talk with the Ranger once or twice, before Mablung had rejoined his unit in scouting forays. Beregond hoped he would have the chance to talk with him some more. He had seen him in passing in the last few days, and despite being caught up in his own troubles, had spared a pleased and delighted thought for the brave man who had been made a captain today.(5)

Listing just some of the most immediate tasks he envisaged for his position, his feelings sobered again. Not for the first time, Beregond wondered what the upcoming interview with Faramir might entail. If Faramir actually _wanted_ him as the captain of his personal guard, if he did not harbour any ambiguous feelings towards him. Beregond was, after all, the man who had blatantly disregarded not only general standing orders for his post, but had also disobeyed Steward Denethor personally, and had employed deadly force in the process, no less. He did not believe Faramir had known him except perhaps by sight or name before the dramatic events in the House of the Stewards, or rather the time of his convalescence. Perhaps Faramir would prefer someone who was personally known to him as the leader of his guard, or at least someone who had command-experience. Or someone who had _not_ defied the lord of the city who was, after all, also his father.

But on the other hand, he had had a few words with the convalescing Steward. They had not spoken of the dramatic and painful events that had happened on the day of the Battle on the Pelennor Fields; for the most part, their few exchanges had been small-talk about everyday things.

Beregond had been dutifully heeding Mithrandir’s instructions about keeping the details of Denethor’s last days secret from Faramir (6), quite relieved that it did not fall to him to reveal them. And Faramir himself had been, it seemed, unable to recall much of what had happened after the arrow had struck him on the field. Or, if he did remember some details of what had happened after, he had kept his own counsel in Beregond’s presence.

Bergil had told him that Faramir always had a kindly word and a friendly smile for the boys running errands and messages; and when Faramir had realized that Beregond’s son was actually one such boy, he had asked after him, wanting to know what he and the other boys were doing, how it was to be in the Old Guesthouse with so many other children, how he liked the schooling taking place there and how he liked his duties, how often father and son managed to be together and so on.

  
~*~*~*~  


Thoughts of his son brought him back to the present again. Hugging him tightly once more, he settled Bergil next to him, gave Iorlas a wry nod in thanks for tolerating his absent-mindedness when important things had to be clarified, noting as he did so that his brother-in-law had begun tugging at one of the pillows, whether in eagerness for him to get on with the tale or in discomfort, he did not know.

After a raised eyebrow and a gesture in the direction of the pillows was answered by a short nod, he arranged the pillows to Iorlas’ satisfaction, then finally deigned to elaborate his rather cryptic announcement from before.

“King Elessar proclaimed Faramir Prince of Ithilien and...” Here he was interrupted with enthusiastic shouts, and it took some time before he could go on, “...and Ithilien is given to him as his princedom, much as Belfalas is the fief of the princes of Dol Amroth. And the King made me Captain of the unit that will guard the Prince...” Smiling at the renewed cheers, he reserved a part of that smile for himself for, once again, he felt a warm glow inside at speaking the new title of Faramir. Doggedly, he went on, “...which is to be called ‘White Company’. In keeping with the Steward’s banner, I presume. Or maybe to honour its future lady?” With a wink at Iorlas he ended, “So, my first act as Captain is to offer you a position on my staff – provided, of course, that Prince Faramir agrees. Do you accept?”

A glow of pride and eagerness blazed in Iorlas’ eyes, and he could only nod and croak, “Yes. Gladly,“ before his smile widened, showing again the dimples that his nephew Bergil had inherited from that side of his family.

Mindful of his uncle’s wound, Bergil patted him on the sound arm, before taking the last apple on the plate. Beregond made himself another sandwich, hungry all of a sudden, and after refilling his brother-in-law’s cup with water once again, there was a companionable silence for a time as all applied themselves to their food.

Being finished with his, Bergil put the rest of the food, together with the used dishes and utensils, in a more or less orderly stack on the plate, emptying the last of the sweet ale in his father’s cup. Slowly, he then asked, “So, is it true, the King will not punish you at all? I mean, you will not have to... I do not know, pay a fine or do some sort of penance or something?”

Beregond rubbed his hand across his forehead, then over his mouth with a drawn-out sigh. 

“To be honest, I cannot really say with absolute certainty.”

Looks of incomprehension greeted this, before he continued, “What the King said was a little ambiguous. He said – I quote: ‘Nonetheless you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the City of Minas Tirith.’ (7) I do not exactly know if this entails an actual banishment from the city.”

Bergil’s eyes grew round. “But...“ he started.

Beregond smiled slightly to reassure him. “I am almost certain that it does not, son, because the King continued with the announcement that I was to become Prince Faramir’s captain in Emyn Arnen. And that does not sound like some kind of punishment, now does it?”

Bergil seemed reassured for the most part; but his father addressed the tiny flicker of doubt still remaining in his eyes with as much calm and confidence as possible in his own gaze, hiding his own spark of uncertainty.

“You will see, I am going to speak with Captain Fa...” He stopped, grinned, and corrected himself, pointedly, “... with _Prince_ Faramir in four days. We will have to decide how to organise this White Company, and other attendant business. Building a company out of nothing will not be easy, especially as Ithilien is practically deserted, and has not entirely escaped Sauron’s depredations. And we will have to build a home for Faramir and his lady, and a base for the Company. I do not know if there are already some projects being carried out there, if the Prince has already made some plans, if he has some specific wishes for his new guard...” He trailed off, at once eager and apprehensive about the great work ahead. “You do not happen to have any instant suggestions, Iorlas?”

His brother-in-law, who had been on an extended assignment to the Ithilien Rangers before he had been posted back to the regular army, frowned some moments in concentration. “Nothing specific. But I would think it important to co-ordinate this guard-business with the Rangers. Perhaps you can even recruit some of their men, although they will already be seriously under-manned at the moment.”

“Good idea. I would have to recruit all over the other units in any case, but Rangers would be quite appropriate: They know the land already, after all. And perhaps I should try to get primarily men in the company whose ancestors were from Ithilien; they would have a vested interest in helping rebuild the land in addition to merely regular guard duty. Or other men, for that matter, who would be interested in such groundwork. I will ask the Prince if that is all right with him.”

He looked again at Bergil, who had listened attentively to the discussion of his elders. “Did I ever tell you that your grandfather was born in Ithilien?”

Bergil nodded shortly, but clearly wanted to hear it again, so his father obliged him.

“Your grandfather was one of the last children to be born there before the last of the inhabitants fled over the Anduin in 2954. I do not think he actually has any recollection of the land, or of the flight to Lossarnach. What do you think – once we have built something in Emyn Arnen where people can live, shall we invite your grandfather to come for a visit? If he feels himself up to it, we could even look for the place where he was born, although I cannot imagine that there is still much left to look at.”

Bergil greeted these suggestions with avid enthusiasm. An expedition with his family into the wilderness was clearly something he was eagerly looking forward to as an exciting adventure. Beregond hid an affectionate smile behind his hand, buoyed up once more by his son’s cheerful mood after all these weeks when he had been so subdued and withdrawn.

Oddly, it was this cheerful, carefree mood the lad now exhibited that, by its very contrast, made him aware for the first time how Bergil had matured over the course of the last months.

Beregond grieved a little for the loss of innocence and untroubled childhood. In hindsight, he realised how Bergil’s plea to be allowed to stay in the city had not been a first step towards a next stage in his development, but rather an outward sign that it had already been taken, a proof of a greater awareness of his surroundings and the concerns of the people around him. His request had not only been a wish not to be separated from his father, but also a wish to participate in helping the city, to make a contribution to its defence and survival. And, analysing his own more or less swift compliance with his son’s entreaty, it seemed as if he himself had subconsciously realised this.

Looking at Iorlas, he saw that his brother-in-law shared his pleasure at Bergil’s high spirits. But he also recognized signs of beginning weariness.

”Bergil, would you please go for a healer again? I think it would be best if we left your uncle to his rest soon.”

”Of course, Father” said Bergil readily and departed right away.

Beregond was mindful of the need to take care with Iorlas; both regarding his physical wound, and his recurring nightmares, so he hoped the healer would bring something that would enable Iorlas to sleep restfully.

Soon, Bergil returned with Ioreth, who made Iorlas drink a fresh dose of the bitter brew, humming under her breath a melody Beregond recognised as a lullaby from Lossarnach. Because of the unusually few protestations of his brother-in-law against the medicine, and the narrow look Ioreth wore when she scanned his pale face and felt his brow with her hand before she left uncommonly quietly, Beregond could see that he had judged rightly and Iorlas really needed the rest. Ioreth’s smile and her calm nod to him as she left assured him, however, that there was nothing more serious to worry about.

After gulping the draught down in large swallows so as to taste it as little as possible, Iorlas stood with the help of his brother-in-law, took care of his personal needs, then sank down on the bed, exhausted, Beregond supporting him while Bergil rearranged the pillows for a better sleeping position.

As had become habit, both stayed with him until his eyes finally fell shut with a last drowsy smile for Bergil.

  
~*~*~*~  


Tip-toeing out of the chamber, Beregond companionably wrapped his arms around his son’s shoulders and asked softly, “Where do you want to go? Shall we go home and I will make you a proper supper – a few apples and a sandwich surely were not enough?” This remark earned him a cheeky grin and a shake of the head, so he went on, “Or shall we go to The Ship and Bough and see what Mistress Almarian has conjured up tonight?”

“Let us go to Mistress Almarian,” requested Bergil predictably, hopping over the threshold of the main entrance of the Houses of Healing.

Father and son both liked to go to this tavern in the second circle. Not only was the food always delicious – for the past weeks more so with the arrival of new provisions up the re-opened roads from the south – but both also had a liking for the sister of the landlord, who produced all this tasty food there as well as in the Old Guesthouse, she with the kind eyes and the warm smile.

Directing their steps down the street, Beregond could not resist tousling his son’s hair again, despite Bergil’s resulting long-suffering sigh and vigorous finger-combing. Which had at best an indifferent effect as always, Beregond noted, stifling a grin. Then he became sober again.

“And after the meal, we are going home and talk about all that has happened today and in the past weeks. You may stay up as long as you like; you can sleep in on the morrow because you and I will have some free days to be together. You could tell me how it was in the Rath Celerdain with all those other boys, what the most exciting or odd or funny errand was you had to run, what you and Diegan did while I was away, what devious plans you devised with your friends...”

He and his son grinned at each other, before Beregond stopped and cupped his son’s face gently between his hands and gazed down at him seriously. “And you may tell me all that was not so pleasant in all that time, what you did not understand, or what frightened you. Yes?”

Bergil nodded, a little uneasy, but determined.

Beregond concluded in a still more serious tone, “And you may ask me about my experiences as well. I will _not_ promise to tell you everything. You are much too young, and I am quite sure you do not want to hear all of it anyway. But I promise that _what_ I tell you will be the truth. We will help each other understand and come to terms with all the things that have happened. The bad things, but also the many good things. Is this all right with you?”

Bergil nodded once again, and father and son resumed their way down the winding streets of the White City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by RotK, The Pyre of Denethor  
> (1), (6) RotK, The Houses of Healing  
> (2), (7), RotK, The Steward and the King  
> (3) My drabble [“Justice”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5026933) provides another look on this incident  
> (4) RotK, Minas Tirith  
> (5) The idea of Mablung being promoted to Captain at that occasion is from Isabeau of Greenlea’s “Captain My Captain and is used here with her consent.
> 
> My warmest thanks go to Gwídhiel and Lady Masterblott for their insightful and careful beta reading. Thanks also to Gwynnyd for some helpful suggestions.
> 
> _03.02.06_


	2. A Visit at Teatime

The door knocker sounded, echoing through the stairwell to the upstairs rooms of the house.

Beregond, startled, looked up from the letter he was writing to his father and sister in Lossarnach. Apart from his neighbour, a young woman who came over for cleaning the house and washing regularly and cooked for them from time to time, they had not had any visitors for the last three days; it seemed word had got out about the King’s instruction that they both take a few days’ time to come to terms with events in peace. Even Diegan had left them, finally seeking his own home and family, which had sent greetings and promised a visit at a later date.

While he heard Bergil hurrying out of his chamber down the stairs to open the door, Beregond finished his last sentence, before putting the quill away and sealing the ink well, slowly, wondering who this visitor could be.

He was not sure if he wanted any visitors, yet.

On the one hand, he had appreciated this time alone with his son enormously. The mere chance to calm both their strained nerves had been an invaluable help, he thought. And to be with Bergil without interruptions for any length of time was a precious gift in itself, which he seldom, _too_ seldom, could enjoy at other times. He was somewhat reluctant to see it pass now.

But on the other hand it would be good, especially for Bergil, to have someone else to talk to for a while. He had been cooped up at home for long enough now, apart from some necessary purchases of provisions, and daily visits to Iorlas.

They had not even gone to The Ship and Bough, after all, on the day of the King’s ruling. Beregond had felt uncomfortable about being seen in public as if he were celebrating blithely, as if the loss of life he had been responsible for did not mean anything to him. And although he had regretted missing out on a good meal and perhaps a chance for a pleasant talk with Mistress Almarian, he had been quite adamant in this decision despite Bergil’s protests. The issues entangled in the King’s decision were too serious for that. In the end, Bergil had grumblingly yielded to his father’s request that they stay at home to recuperate in solitude.

Beregond suspected that Bergil had been as overwrought and mentally tired as he was, but had not wanted to admit it. Staying at home so long must seem as a punishment for such an active lad as he was, especially after all that running around on errands which had so suddenly stopped after his father’s suspension from duty.

And surely, a change from the mostly serious discussions they had had of late would be good for both of them.

It had been difficult, sometimes gruelling, to talk about their experiences: Of what Bergil had gone through during the siege. Of Bergil’s fears for his father, of his anger at him for putting himself in such a situation. Of his fear of being left all alone, an orphan like all too many other children in the city. Of his nightmares.

Beregond doubted that Bergil had spoken about this to Diegan, at least to any great extent. As much as his son liked Diegan, Beregond suspected that it would have seemed disloyal to the lad to speak about his father to someone else, especially when some of those feelings had been negative ones. It had taken him some time and many assurances before he had managed to persuade Bergil to admit them in the first place, and then to reassure him that those feelings were very understandable and nothing to be ashamed of, and that he was not in the least angry with him for having them.

It had been difficult for Beregond, too, to keep his promise and talk about his own experiences. To relive the events of that day in Rath Dínen, of the march towards Mordor and the battle at the Black Gate.

He was not certain, even now, if he had done the right thing by Bergil in talking so freely of his own fears and doubts during that time. Perhaps it would have been better to omit some things from his narrative, as he had done in glossing over the more violent and gruesome details of the actual fighting. He had always been honest when talking to his son, and Bergil had seemed to appreciate his frankness in this case, as well, but all the same...

  
~*~*~*~  


Following his son downstairs while rolling his sleeves back down to his wrists, Beregond heard a familiar voice answering a surprised exclamation from Bergil.

“Hullo to you, too, Bergil. I hope I am not intruding?”

The last was addressed to Beregond, who, upon identifying his visitor, had rushed to his son’s side. A wide smile spreading over his face, he shook his head firmly, going on one knee to clap their visitor on the shoulder.

“On the contrary! What a pleasant surprise, Master Perian!”

The long-suffering sigh of the Hobbit at this address only made Beregond grin wider. “Pippin, you are very welcome. Please, come in, come in!” The Hobbit let himself be ushered into the main room and onto the comfortably cushioned bench, while Bergil found him a stool to put his feet on.

“Bergil, do not stand there bouncing like a grasshopper,” Beregond then chided indulgently, shaking his head at his son, who was indeed skipping from one foot to the other in his excitement. “Ask our visitor if you might offer him some refreshments!” Winking at him, he added in an overdone aside, “You will not receive ‘no’ for an answer, I am fairly sure.”

All three broke into laughter, and Pippin admitted with demurely lowered eyes as how “a little something” would suit him just fine. ”My stomach tells me it is going on to teatime,” he added mock-defensively.

Beregond excused himself to go into the kitchen at the rear of the house to prepare the promised snacks. He was rather surprised when Pippin immediately offered to help. But the matter-of-factness of the offer suggested that it was by no means unusual in the Shire for a guest to join the host in preparing a meal. Perhaps such a custom was to be expected, considering how often Hobbits seemed to eat: If they did not pop into each other’s kitchens, they would probably _never_ find the time for extended chats, another favourite pastime of theirs, or so he had gathered in conversations with Pippin.

In no time at all, Pippin seemed at home in the unfamiliar, well-stocked kitchen, and was bustling about as if this were not his first visit. When they withdrew back to the main room with a generously laden tray, Beregond had the feeling that he had discovered an important fact of the nature of the Pheriannath.

Looking over at his guest, who was helping Bergil pour tea into their mugs before selecting various dishes for his plate, Beregond thought the Hobbit looked oddly unfamiliar to his eyes. It actually took a few moments before he identified the reason: All the other times he had seen him except the very first time they had met, Pippin had always been clothed as a guard of the city, whereas now he wore civilian clothes again.

It seemed Bergil’s thought had gone in a similar direction – after they had observed the Standing Silence, Bergil nodded his head towards Pippin and asked, “Why are you not wearing your uniform, Pippin? Did the King release you from his service?”

Pippin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “No, indeed! Why would Strid... Aragorn do such a thing?”

Beregond asked his son, “Did I not tell you that Pippin was even knighted in Cormallen?” At Bergil’s shake of the head he continued, “I am sorry. With all that has happened, it must have slipped my mind.” He looked at Pippin and said, only half in jest, “I beg your pardon, Pippin, that was a serious oversight on my part.”

Grinning, Pippin waved his apology aside. “It was nice of Strid... Aragorn – oh, I _must_ learn to use his proper name, now! Must I call him Elessar? Or ‘Your Majesty’? He has altogether too many names, he does. Perhaps I shall stick to Strider, after all. Erm, where was I...? Yes, it was a nice gesture, but I guess you Big Folk find those lofty titles more important than we Hobbits do. And to answer your original question, Bergil, I am not on duty now, so I wear my own clothes, so to speak.”

Bergil looked sceptical at the thought of someone so lightly dismissing such an honour as being dubbed a knight by the King himself. “Do you not have any knights in the Shire, Pippin?”

“No, we do not.” Pippin made a droll face. “And I rather think my three sisters are going to laugh themselves silly if I tell them that someone made one of their baby brother, of all people.”

“Oh, _girls_!” Bergil sniffed derisively.

Beregond and Pippin broke out in loud laughter at that.

Bergil wrinkled his nose but said nothing more, instead filling his plate once more and tucking in.

After some munching, he came back to the previous topic by remarking, “So, do all Hobbits wear clothes such as these?”

“Something similar in style and cut, yes. But we seldom use such fine cloth, except for the most festive of occasions.” Pippin fingered the silk of his emerald green vest. “Not all Hobbits can afford such fine cloth at all. My family does, of course, but even _we_ do not go around wearing silks and satin every day. Although there are a few rather... hm... pretentious relatives... Oh, and naturally, there is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins...” He made a comical grimace, before continuing, “And they would be very unpractical for farming or gardening or such activities in any case. Why, I remember one time Vinca – my sister Pervinca who is five years older than I – getting into much trouble with my mother because she played with her friends in the dusty Mathom-house in Michel Delving, wearing her best velvet skirts. Much hue and cry on all sides! And...”

“Mathom-house?” Bergil interjected, clearly puzzled

”Bergil, it is not very polite to interrupt people,” admonished Beregond, but Pippin made a kindly gesture to show he was not angry.

”A Mathom-house is a place to store mathoms, for example if you have so many that your home gets too crowded with them,“ he explained.

When Bergil still looked uncomprehending, Beregond explained to the Hobbit, “He does not understand the word ‘mathom’, Pippin. And neither do I. I assume it is a word particular to the Shire. Like ‘smial’, and ‘tween’, and ‘elevenses’.”

”Ah!” exclaimed Pippin, grinning. “You really _did_ make a list like you said you planned to do!

At Beregond’s confirming smile, Pippin rubbed his hands, considering. “Well, I did tell both of you that when Hobbits celebrate their birthdays, they _give_ presents, instead of receiving them like it is here in Gondor, did I not? Usually, those are small gifts which are practical, or which the one who gets them needs, or flowers, or food – a very popular choice as you may imagine – or toys for children. But there are some presents that have no immediate use, and can only be put somewhere to look at. And if you have many of those, or do not have much space, they can quickly clutter your home. Some of them keep wandering as gifts to the next owner, but most of those are given to the Mathom-house and can be viewed there by all Hobbits. That day at the Free Fair on Midsummer, some of us children were interested in the mithril-coat you will know Frodo wore during his journey. Bilbo brought it back from his adventures with the Dwarves and put it up in Michel Delving for many years, until he took it with him when he went to the Elves.”

He cleared his throat, grinning half in mischief, half in embarrassment. “We wanted to take a look at the mail-coat because Bilbo had just recently told us the story of Smaug the Dragon...”

Bergil perked up at that even more, which did not go unnoticed. “...I can tell the story, if you like, but I suggest you ask Sam: It is one of his favourites, and he tells it _much_ better than I can, almost as well as Bilbo himself... Anyway, Vinca pulled a chest to the place where the mithril-coat hung on its rack, tried to clamber on it, caught and ripped her dress on a few splinters and then fell in a basket full of dusty old tapestries that someone had obviously collected to beat out, but which then had been forgotten beside the rack. And luckily Vinca never told our parents that I had played with them, in my new vest, to boot – but _I_ was much more careful than she anyway!” The Hobbit grinned roguishly in remembrance, then looked himself over once more.

“In fact, I do not think I have ever worn such fine clothes as they have made us here in Minas Tirith, except, perhaps, for some of the things the Elves gave us in Lothlórien.”

This remark led Bergil to demand the story of their stay in the Golden Wood. Pippin obliged readily, although Beregond noticed flashes of sorrow passing over the Hobbit’s face during the narrative whenever Boromir was mentioned. Pippin’s sadness was countered by the eagerness in Bergil’s shining eyes, and his demands for more anecdotes about the late Captain-General during the journey of the Fellowship: Boromir had been Bergil’s hero since he had been a small child waving at him from his father’s arm upon a victorious return of the army to the city.

Beregond was not surprised when the Hobbit was uncharacteristically reticent on the subject and did not volunteer more than a few comical tales about Boromir trying to teach him and his cousin Merry sword-fighting, or about some more or less friendly squabbles between him, Gimli and Legolas.

  
~*~*~*~  


And it came as no surprise, either, when the Hobbit, after having apparently satisfied Bergil’s curiosity for the moment, was quick to turn the subject to other things by pointing at the bread he was nibbling and remarking, “This herbal bread is delicious – and it smells as if freshly baked.”

“It is,” said Bergil, “Mistress Almarian gave it to me when I brought her some more herbs from the garden an hour ago.”

The name was unknown to the Hobbit, so Bergil proceeded to explain that she was the sister of the landlord of The Ship and Bough where she worked as a cook, and how she also cooked for the errand-boys of the Old Guesthouse, and how good her meals always tasted, and how nice she was.

Pippin grinned at this enthusiastic praise, and shared a surreptitious wink and a smile with Beregond. He solemnly promised Bergil that he would visit the inn as soon as possible to discover for himself the quality of the kitchen. “As a Hobbit I am uniquely qualified to judge the excellence of food!” he declared.

He then turned his attention to another subject matter which Beregond knew was of general interest to all Hobbits.

“When you say you brought herbs to the admirable Mistress Almarian – does that mean that the big garden behind the house is yours?” he asked. “I had already noticed it when I came; it is so rarely that one can see such a relatively large green place in the city. I must tell Sam about it, he was bemoaning the fact that there were too much stone and too little gardens in Minas Tirith for his liking. And according to Gimli, Legolas also remarked upon it when they first entered the city after the siege.”(1)

Beregond said, “Actually, the garden is shared between our house and the two others around it. It is too big a garden for one household alone, especially as there are mostly small families living in this area, so there are some beds set aside for each home for individual planting, and some are shared.”

At the time of its creation, the garden had surely been an immaculate, pristine ornamental garden, but had in the intervening decades and decades deteriorated into an untended, overgrown tangle, where the children of the tenants, among them Bergil, had liked to play. More recently it had been changed yet again, this time into a more practical kitchen garden, growing vegetables, greens and some herbs for the use of the residents, with a few flowerbeds and some fruit trees mingled in between.

“I do not think you have had much chance to visit private homes, have you?” After Pippin’s headshake Beregond continued, “There are gardens in Minas Tirith, but not many, it is true. Most of them are attached to the large houses of the nobles or richer people in the upper levels. In the lower circles, houses are usually smaller and more crowded together, so there is not that much space to put a garden. Or the people to tend it. As you have surely noticed, many houses have been standing unoccupied and empty for a long time. Hopefully, that will change now.”

Pippin said, “Gimli also told me that Legolas promised to help bring more green to the city, and that he would try to convince some of his own folk to come here to help in the rebuilding and to make the city even more beautiful.” (2)

With obvious relish, he then dedicated himself once more to the herbal bread, spreading some of the creamy goat’s cheese from Tarnost on it, and looked curiously around the room.

“Do you know... _this_ is the first time I actually see the interior of a normal, inhabited family home of Men?”

“Really?” asked Bergil, amazed.

“Yes, it is true. Well, not that there was that much opportunity on our journey or after I came here. In Rohan there was just the one night in Meduseld, which is the King’s hall, and here in Minas Tirith it has been our lodging that Lord Denethor...” He faltered at the name, and a haunted, grieving look came into his eyes.

Beregond kept his face carefully blank and noticed Bergil fidgeting in his seat, biting his lip with a frown on his face.

Pippin visibly gathered himself, and after clearing his throat he resumed, “...that Lord Denethor assigned to Gandalf and me on our arrival. That guesthouse, some of the buildings up in the seventh circle, and the Houses of Healing have been the only buildings I have entered so far. And the nice house we are now living in, of course.”

Beregond noticed Pippin had actually left out one building he had also entered– the House of the Stewards in Rath Dínen. But he certainly could not fault him for _this_ omission.

“Shall I show you around?” asked Bergil, and Beregond looked at his son, rather proud that the lad had not only noticed the awkwardness of the moment, but also stepped so adroitly into the breach now.

“Please do,” seized Pippin the opportunity, undoubtedly relieved as well by the chance to steer clear off the topic. “If it is all right with you, Beregond.”

“Why ever not? I would be curious to know if my humble abode greatly differs from that of the ‘Ernil i Pheriannath’.”

Now laughing, Pippin retorted, “Two differences I have already spotted: The front door is not round, and the knob is on the side rather than in the middle.” He paused, then said, deadpan, “Well, _that_ – and the ceilings are much higher.”

Beregond shook his head in amusement, even more so at Bergil’s giggles. Hearing his son’s uninhibited laughter lifted his spirits as always, conscious as he was of how seldom he had heard it of late.

“Master Pippin, the latter notion never would have occurred to me!” he commented dryly, then teased, “As you already know our kitchen inside-out, we shall omit this room from the tour.”

Pippin, not in the least abashed, said, “I would not mind seeing it again. A nice kitchen is always worth seeing more than once, to a Hobbit’s way of thinking.”

And so Bergil led the way, grinning, into the kitchen once more, where Pippin made a great show of looking around and admiring furniture, kitchenware and utensils, before they went on to the other rooms.

It was a two-storied house on the south-east side of the fourth level, with one long side of the house facing the garden, and the front view looking on a quiet side street. With two others of similar kind it was situated on a plot of land that must once have been the estate of a prosperous merchant or minor noble in bygone days, arranged on three sides around the garden. It consisted of the generous main room, the kitchen, a small tiled chamber used for bathing and washing, and two narrow rooms for storage on the ground floor; and four small upstairs rooms, two the bedrooms of the family and the third used as Beregond’s study. The last room served occasionally as a guestroom – Diegan had slept there when he had come to keep Bergil company – and to deposit some odds and ends.

Beregond wondered, again, for how long he and Bergil would be able to call this “home”, given the King’s ambiguous edict, and how soon he must truly ‘go forth from the City of Minas Tirith’ (4). He hoped that, at least for the time being, they would both be allowed to stay here in their home in the city – if not for his own sake, then at least for Bergil’s. It was one of the most pressing questions he would have to ask tomorrow, particularly in light of the fact that, to his knowledge, there existed no accommodations in Ithilien ready for the use of the new White Company, even less for members of their families.

His late wife had found the location of their present home when they had searched for a place in Minas Tirith to build a home and family together, and they had been very happy here, until she and their daughter had died.

Beregond had wanted to move out at first, not wishing to confront the absence, the _emptiness_ where Faelivrin had been before. But he had abstained, for the sake of his son, whom he had not wanted to be torn away from familiar surroundings on top of the shock of losing his mother and baby sister.

After the first sharp pang of grief had passed, Beregond had learned to be thankful for his decision. Now, a vase she had loved and always had kept filled with flowers, or the chest that had come as part of her dowry, brought him warm, loving memories, instead of leaving him helplessly bewildered with bereavement.

Recently he had, with Bergil’s agreement, even brought back the portrait of Faelivrin that he had stored in his father’s house in Lossarnach after her death because he could not bear having it at home. 

Seeing Pippin’s eyes linger on the painting hanging on the wall opposite the bench where he sat again as they ended their little exploration, he explained with as much equanimity as he could muster, “My wife, Faelivrin. I think I mentioned her?”

The Hobbit’s eyes were sombre now and full of compassion. He nodded and said quietly, “She looks beautiful and full of joy.”

Beregond said, with a constricted throat, “She was all that. An artist friend of the family painted the picture just after Bergil was born.”

An awkward pause ensued, broken after some moments by Pippin clearing his throat, and standing up to gently squeeze first Beregond’s and then Bergil’s shoulder. He re-seated himself next to the latter, and patted his hands.

  
~*~*~*~  


King’s feelings on the matter might have been and that delivering justice on such a complicated matter could not have been an easy task.

Beregond was relieved to see it because he had sensed, with some concern, a latent wariness in Bergil whenever they had spoken about the King in the last days, once the first exhilarating rush of the excitement and relief about his reprieve and all the other exciting changes taking place in Gondor and in their own situation had been over. In the calm of these days, with so much time to think and as good as no outside distractions, it had been too easy to remember the weeks of uncertainty and strain, and feel resentment towards those who had been a cause for those feelings:

The days when Bergil had been more or less confined to his home with Diegan, or at the Houses of Healing with Iorlas. Iorlas, who would have been as much a further cause for concern as a source of comfort, due to his grave injuries, apart from the fact that he had been worried as well about his brother-in-law, which would not have stayed unnoticed by Bergil. The days when first Bergil would not even have known if his father had survived the battle. And before and during and after, the constant fear of losing him, if not in a battle, then perhaps as the consequence of a trial.

Beregond could understand the reserve of Bergil regarding the King, to a certain extent. To Bergil, it must have looked as if King Elessar had taken an excessive amount of time, heedlessly leaving them in a terrible state of anxiety and fear for so long. In Bergil’s eyes, there was of course no question of his father’s courage or character, and as he had not really understood the severity of Beregond’s offences, neither had Bergil understood why the King had deliberated for six weeks before pronouncing Beregond’s doom.

Beregond had tried to explain things from the other perspective: That the King had not taken all this time because of indifference, or even as a sort of punishment, but rather the opposite, that he had wanted to be diligent and thorough in a time when countless other decisions had to be made, decisions of far wider-reaching import than their small personal drama in situation which must surely be as novel and strange to the newly-minted King as _he_ was to his subjects. And, especially, that the King had to uphold the law, and could not and _should_ not be too swift in judgement.

Beregond hid a relieved sigh at the view of Bergil’s thoughtful abstraction. It seemed his earlier words had perhaps fallen on fertile ground, after all, and were now, with Pippin’s help, bearing the first fruits. Then he forced himself to stop mulling over these dark matters and to attend to their guest.

Pippin, however, seemed not to have noticed his absent-mindedness. In fact, he seemed to have fallen in a similar state of abstraction himself. Which should not come as a wonder, as the Hobbit would clearly have grim thoughts of his own concerning the events that had led to the King passing judgement on Beregond.

Beregond cleared his plate and served himself a portion of salad, feeling his own mood slowly lightening again, and hence feeling prepared for second helpings, then poured tea in all three mugs. This sudden movement achieved the desired effect of shaking his guest out of his thoughts as well: Pippin started a bit, then reached for the proffered mug with a grateful and understanding expression.

Before actually guiding it to his mouth, however, the Perian looked Beregond over carefully once from head to foot and back again. Then he frowned with an extremely puzzled expression.

Beregond noticed this only after some moments, as he still had one eye on his unusually silent son, who was still lost in complex thoughts, despite absentmindedly helping himself to another slice of bread with mild ham and watercress.

“What...?” addressed Beregond the curious behaviour of his guest. “Is something the matter with me?”

Pippin raised his eyebrows at this. “It is strange, “ he said in a musing tone, “I would have thought that, as Captain of the White Company, you would look altered somehow. Maybe more... awe-inspiring...?” Then his sombre expression dissolved into dancing eyes and a chuckle. “Oh, Beregond, you should have seen your face just now! No, seriously,” he composed himself again, although a small smile still graced his lips, “I am _awfully_ glad that Strider was able to pardon you so completely. And my warmest congratulations on this promotion, and your new assignment to Faramir! I know that last point means even more to you than being made a captain.”

Bergil, come back to the here and now, grinned with the Hobbit as his father assumed an aggrieved expression and asked, “You think Father should have grown a foot since then?”

Beregond aimed a playful cuff at his ears. “No cheek from you, insolent pup! It is bad enough being ridiculed by a ‘tween’, I will _not_ have it from my own child!”

While Bergil laughingly ducked his father’s hand, it was Pippin’s turn to act indignant. “You should be speaking more respectfully about a knight of Gondor! One who is good friends with the King! _And_ a troll-slayer to boot!”

Beregond raised his hands defensively. “My most humble apologies, Master Peregrin. I promise to mend my ways.”

  
~*~*~*~  


The afternoon passed quickly among the friends. Mostly, they let Pippin do the talking, which he did willingly and with great enthusiasm: about the Rohirrim who had now mostly left, to the great regret especially of Merry; about some of the embassies of far-off lands and some of their odd customs. But mainly about the future: the Shire, his friends and family who would be waiting for them all to return, his plans once they were all home again.

Privately, Beregond thought that Pippin took the worry his friends and relatives must be feeling over the continued and unexplained absence of the four travellers rather lightly, but he did not say anything since he did not want to spoil the mood. It was a sign of just how _young_ the Hobbit actually was according to the standards of his people.

Once again, Pippin tried to explain to them the finer points of Hobbit genealogies, and how exactly he, Frodo, Merry were related to each other and to the famous Bilbo Baggins, which quickly made Bergil cross-eyed and had Beregond torn between fascination, mirth and complete bewilderment.

Before long, the Hobbit had taken out his pipe, “with the rest of my store of pipe-weed”, as he declared mournfully. He offered it to Beregond, who politely declined, and let Bergil draw once, after a sidelong glance at Beregond asking his permission, which he hesitantly granted.

The lad did not like it at all, as Beregond had half-suspected, and hastily snatched a cup of water, which he emptied and refilled twice ere he had apparently got rid of the taste sufficiently, grimacing comically all the while, to the amused commiserations of his elders.

When the time finally came for Pippin to resume his duties in the Citadel, he was only reluctantly released. Bergil especially insisted on a solemn promise that he would visit again, which Pippin gave, with sparkling eyes and a grin.

“Would you mind if I brought some more visitors with me?”

“No,” chorused Beregond and Bergil in unison, and the former added, “Not in the least, I would be honoured! Although I do not know when I next will have time, Pippin. You know my interview with Prince Faramir will take place on the morrow, and I do not know what may result from it. But I could inform you if we meet in the Citadel, or leave a message with one of the pages.”

“Yes, that would be best, I think.” Pippin stood up, brushed some crumbs from his vest, and went to the door, accompanied by his hosts.  
He clasped their hands in the grip so astoundingly firm for his small stature, and shook them heartily. “A good evening to both of you! And good luck tomorrow, Beregond! Although I am sure all will be well.”

“Good evening to you, too, Master Pippin,” replied Beregond. “Make the guard proud to have you in their midst when you fulfil your duties!”

With a final laugh and a waving hand, the Hobbit went on his way, and Beregond gently closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1), (2) RotK, The Last Debate  
> (3) RotK, The Pyre of Denethor  
> (4) RotK, The Steward and the King
> 
> Thanks once again to my beta readers Gwídhiel and Lady Masterblott.
> 
> _02.07.06_


	3. Meeting Prince Faramir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little quiz for this chapter:
> 
> Beregond briefly visits his best friend and his family. The name of this friend, his wife, and their two children are names of characters in stories of professional, published authors.
> 
> Hints:  
> 1) They are two female, and two male authors; all four are writing in English.  
> 2) All four authors are still living and writing sci-fi and/or fantasy stories.  
> 3) All four characters die in the course of their stories; they are not necessarily major protagonists.
> 
> Those who send me at least 3 of 4 correct answers in a private e-mail get as their “prize” a drabble, with a LotR/Silm prompt of their choice.

Beregond sat, brooding, at the breakfast table, wearing his shabby but comfortable dressing robe.

All morning long, the scars across his ribs had been stabbing and itching abominably where the claws of the fallen troll had not quite missed him, and as his mood had already been low to begin with, this did nothing to improve it.

He wondered what was the matter with him: whatever it was, it had been with him since yestereve. After Pippin’s departure, the house seemed to plunge into a gloomy atmosphere, as if the Hobbit had taken the sunshine away with him. Beregond had not even found the concentration to finish his letter to his family in Lossarnach, had merely scribbled away and made nonsense doodles on one of the discarded drafts until he had finally given up and put the letter away for another day.

He had hardly slept that night, and when he finally did, he had experienced one of his more horrific nightmares. He had apparently woken Bergil with some inarticulate cries, because when he had become conscious of his surroundings, he found the boy standing at the side of his bed, one hand hovering over his father as if not certain whether or not he should rouse him from sleep. Fully awake, Beregond had gulped back rapid breaths and opened his arms to Bergil for a tight hug, until both their hearts had slowed to a more normal pace and the trembling had stopped. Beregond hoped his son had not noticed the wet tracks on his face in the dark of the chamber, but rather suspected that Bergil had.

The trigger for his bad dream had been evident: A brief but heavy shower of rain had fallen on the city during the night, and the loud, relentless drumming of the drops against shutters and roof had borne an eerie resemblance to the impact of missiles on stone walls, and the crackling of flames...

Beregond shuddered in memory even now in the bright light of early morning, and quickly left the table to rummage at random in one of the cupboards so his son would not see his face, the other hand rubbing over his side, while he sensed Bergil’s questioning, anxious eyes on his back.

He knew that, in truth, the rain was but the most obvious trigger for his nightmares. After he had convinced Bergil to return to his own bed, he had lain sleepless for a long time afterwards, at least until the small hours of the morning, his thoughts circling each other in fruitless chase.

He stepped behind Bergil’s chair and laid a hand on his shoulder to make him turn around.

When Bergil faced him, with eyebrows quizzically raised and uncertainty flickering in his darkly-smudged eyes, betraying his own lack of sleep, Beregond smiled a twisted smile.

“I am nervous because of the interview,” he confessed.

With one hand still holding a knife, and the other a slice of bread, Bergil simply nodded. “I understand, Father,” he said reassuringly, comfortingly.

A little of Beregond’s normal equanimity came back with this simple statement, and he gave his son’s shoulder a final pat before assuming his seat once more.

They finished their breakfast shortly and went on to do their morning chores together, tidying the kitchen and making up their beds, ending by putting the used towels and linen in the laundry basket in the bathing chamber. Beregond had never wanted a servant living with them in the house: he was used to caring for his own needs – his parents had never spoiled their children, and soldiers learned to be self-sufficient – and he and Faelivrin had brought up Bergil in the same vein. Employing Núneth from a few houses down the street as regular help had always been a sufficient arrangement. 

Alone in his room, with only Bergil’s grumbling audible from next door as he apparently fought with a recalcitrant piece of clothing, he carefully removed his own attire from its chest to lay it out on the bed, then strode over to look out of the window, checking the weather once more.

The morning looked clear and bright, the garden freshly-cleansed after the night’s shower, the greens sun-drenched and sparkling, the soil a rich brown. The scent of spring flowers, blossoming trees and humid earth wafted up to him, and he took a deep breath. He lingered for a few moments to take in the view, to share the garden’s feeling of refreshment, and only reluctantly closed the shutters.

Shrugging out of his dressing robe, he put on his most formal outfit. It would be odd, entering the Citadel not in his uniform, he thought, lacing the cords of his linen shirt, donning his dark-blue tunic and straightening the embroidered folds, pulling on his freshly-polished boots with some effort, while suppressing grumbles of his own. In fact, it would be the first time he would ever enter the Citadel not clad as a soldier of Gondor. Somehow this made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

  
~*~*~*~  


When he rejoined his son in the kitchen, Beregond poured himself another mug of tea with the last of the hot water. Mug in hand, he wandered over to Bergil, who stood nearly straight-faced for his father’s inspection, and Beregond made a show of frowning disapprovingly while he swept some non-existent specks of dust off his shoulders.

“I wonder how long it will take until Iorlas can leave the Houses of Healing...”

“We can ask when we visit him today,” Bergil replied. “I am glad he is recovered enough to walk around at least a little. It became boring, to have to stay in his chamber the whole time.”

Beregond smiled. “I imagine he feels the same. I know he regretted it deeply that he was not fit enough to wander in the gardens at a time when the White Lady of Rohan was still there. To take in the view. Of the garden, you understand.”

They grinned at one another, and Bergil had just opened his mouth for a no doubt cheeky rejoinder about adult oddities, when someone used the door knocker.

“Núneth is early today,” the boy observed instead and went to open the door.

However, it was not the maid, it was one of Bergil’s own comrades, Gwinhir.

“Hullo, Bergil! Is your father there?”

“I am here, lad,” Beregond answered, coming up behind his son. “Is something the matter?”

The boy ducked his head in greeting. “Good morrow, Master Beregond. Mistress Ioreth sent me because she knew you wanted to take Bergil to Master Iorlas today. I...”

“What about Iorlas?” Bergil interrupted, alarmed. “Has his condition worsened? He was fine yesterday morning!”

The boy quickly made reassuring gestures. “No, no. It is just... Mistress Ioreth said to say that he had some bad nightmares this night and banged up his arm in his sleep so they had to put it in a brace. But Mistress Ioreth said to tell it was only as a precautionary measure. And she has given him a sleeping draught to make up for lost sleep. He should sleep until late afternoon, she said, so you might wish to postpone your visit until he is more likely to be awake.”

Beregond squeezed Bergil’s shoulder: It seemed he was not the only one in whom the nightly rainstorm had awoken dark memories.

“Thank you, Gwinhir. Will you not come in for a short while? I do believe we have some sweet raisin buns left over from breakfast.”

Gwinhir looked briefly tempted, but then regretfully shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but no, I have to go back immediately.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else, but only shook his head once again.

Beregond smiled at him encouragingly, however, so Gwinhir took heart and asked, “When will you come back, Bergil? We miss you!”

Bergil obviously did not know how to reply, so Beregond answered for him, “I have an appointment with the Steward today, and I am certain we will know more after that. But now you had better go, and please thank Mistress Ioreth for the news.”

The boy nodded understandingly, smiled at Bergil, and hurried away.

Closing the door behind them, Beregond looked down at his son. “It seems, after all, that I cannot bring you to the Houses of Healing to pester Iorlas today while I am with the Steward.”

Bergil faked an offended glare, but seemed reassured by his calm reaction to the news of Iorlas’ setback.

“Maybe we could go to Diegan instead?” Bergil suggested as they went back to the kitchen. “I have not seen Eddard since they all came back from Lamedon. I want to tell him about what has happened here since they left with the wains. And I have not even seen the baby!”

Diegan’s son was three years younger than Bergil, but the two had always got along well. It would be good for Bergil to be in a house that was always so full of life and laughter; Diegan and his family would do their best to distract him from worrying about his father’s appointment. One way or another, it was better to finally end their self-imposed isolation, anyway, and better to begin in a friendly environment.

He smiled down at his son, who was eyeing one of the raisin buns speculatively. “We will have to go ask them first if they will want you around today. I _am_ astonished that you are so curious about the baby – you _do_ know that Eddard’s new sibling is a little girl?”

Bergil blushed at this as he simultaneously grabbed the bun, but then said, with all the logic of a ten-year-old boy, “She is too young to be a nuisance like the other girls. And I will teach her how to play properly with us.”

“I am sure you will... “ Beregond murmured, amused. 

Shortly afterwards, another knock at the front door announced Núneth’s arrival, coinciding with the town’s bells sounding out the second hour. She greeted them both and then said, “Master Beregond, you remember I said I would bring back the book you lent me by tomorrow?”

He nodded.

“Would you mind very much if...”

“...If you kept it a little longer? No, certainly not. I am pleased you like it that much.”

She blushed. “Well, yes, I did. But it is not because I have not finished it yet – I read it all in just _four_ days, I did! But, my mother saw it lying on my bedside table and took it up yesterday and leafed through it. I was so glad to see her take an interest in it! You know how she has been since Henderch...” Núneth cleared her throat, overcome at the thought of her brother who had died when the Causeway Forts had been overrun.

“I am glad if the book provides a distraction for her. You are very welcome to keep it for as long as she likes. I myself have often found reading some of those poems a great solace.”

Núneth nodded gratefully and smiled shyly. Then she pointed to the basket she had been carrying. “I brought another few crocks of those preserved pears Bergil likes so much from my aunt in Lebennin. She said to say she is glad someone likes them outside of the family.”

Bergil grinned in appreciation, and Beregond thanked her. Then: “We must go now, Núneth. There are some fresh raisin buns left over from breakfast – help yourself to them, if you like. I do not know when we will return today, so you will not have to prepare a hot meal. If you could just buy one of those loaves of bread from the baker down in the second circle, you know, the one who just took over Old Fânor’s shop, I cannot remember the name. And perhaps some cheese from the market, I will leave it to you to choose, but no blue cheese, please! I have put the laundry in the basket for you to take to the washers. I think the shutters on the front need a fresh scrubbing – the ash and dust from the burned-out house up the street dirtied them all over again when they finally pulled it down yesterday. Bergil, are you ready?”

“Not quite, Father!” the boy called, already clattering up the stairs into his room, and running down again to meet him, a wooden toy horse in his hand which he held out to Núneth who had begun unpacking her basket.

“I cannot wait to show Eddard the horse Auntie Mairen gave to me! Look, Núneth, how do you like it?”

“Oh, a fine horse it is, looks like real Rohirric work to me. And so detailed. Why, you can almost see the single hairs of its tail!” she exclaimed admiringly.

“Then we are ready to go, it seems. Good day, Núneth!”

“Good day to you, too. And good luck!”

  
~*~*~*~  


On the way to Diegan’s home – which was situated down one level and just beyond the bisecting spur of the mountain – they did not speak much: both were instead looking at the busy streets with interest.

Looking at the faces of the people they passed, Beregond saw that where before they had been carefully wiped blank of all expression, or had clearly shown the signs of strain, fear, despair and grief, now there were signs of excitement, of hope returned, of happy anticipation. Yes, there was still the sorrow of endured losses, but now people had a brighter future to look forward to, the consolation that the sacrifices had not been in vain, and the certainty that their long fight against the Shadow had not ended in defeat, after all, but in triumph against all odds.

His own spirits lifted at the sight of women with baskets under their arms chatting gaily with their neighbours on the front stoops, shops and booths opening up or already busy. Many more children than it seemed had been there before skipping around the stones of the pavement and jumping over the small puddles left by the rain. Families meandering through quiet side streets or sitting on benches on the small gathering places of the city.

When they arrived at the gate to the third circle, however, his mood suffered a setback again: One of the guards at the gate, whom he knew in passing as a younger brother of a guard of the Second Company of the Citadel, did not react to his hail of greeting. He stood staring straight ahead, and when Beregond repeated his words, he merely turned his eyes towards him, glaring at him coldly, still without saying anything.

Noticing Bergil trembling in outrage and on the verge of addressing the man, Beregond sighed, tugged at the boy’s sleeve and steered him quickly under the arch of the gate and away from the guards, only loosening his grip when they were out of sight.

“But, Father...” Bergil protested, dragging his feet.

“I know... I know...” he answered, as calmly as his own inner turmoil allowed, his hand creeping to his once more prickling scars. “It is all right, lad – I can understand him.”

Bergil stopped abruptly, and Beregond nearly bumped into him. “But the King’s judgement...”

Beregond looked around: This stretch of the street was nearly empty at the moment, only a man drawing a wheelbarrow was passing them by, and a maid with a yoke bearing two pails of water. Neither of them paid any heed to father and son beyond a cursory glance and a short nod of greeting.

Beregond returned his gaze to his son, blinking a few times to clear his sight which had blurred for a moment with his own emotions and his burning wish to make his son _see_. He laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and when he spoke again, his voice was low but urgent and intense. “Bergil, King Elessar showed mercy and deemed my reasons for doing what I did justified... or at least excusable. What he did _not_ say, however, was that what I did was right. Bergil, I left my post against strict orders... and I killed three men! Can you not understand that people might resent the fact that such grievous deeds go unpunished? Even more, that I came away from it with a promotion?”

Bergil shuffled his feet and lowered his head for a moment, before looking again into his father’s eyes. “Yes,” he said more softly, “yes, I understand this, Father. Or at least I think I do. But... But Mithrandir himself said that it was the Enemy’s fault, that _S-Sauron_ was responsible for Lord Denethor’s madness and his plan to burn himself and Lord Faramir! And that the servants were blind in their obedience (2)! Why do you alone get the blame?”

Beregond straightened up, sighing again, and raked his hand through his hair. “You do not know whether this is in fact the case, lad. And one should not speak ill of the dead.”

While they resumed their walk, Beregond once more mused about the question of whether it had been wise to shield Bergil so much from encounters with people who might have negative opinions regarding his actions, regardless how they were judged officially, and who might not hesitate to make these opinions known.

Arrived at last at their destination, Bergil was just lifting his hand to the knocker, when the door opened on its own with a loud bang, and a gaggle of giggling children of various ages stormed out, pursued by Malgelir, hands formed to claws, growling like some wild beast. Catching sight of the two visitors on the doorstep, he flashed a toothy smile of greeting, barked once in Bergil’s direction, making him flinch, and hurried after the children just retreating hurriedly around the corner.

Beregond burst out laughing, especially at Bergil’s dumbfounded expression. Shaking his head, he proceeded to enter the house, ushering the boy before him.

In the great, cosy central room which was used by the whole family, cluttered as ever with the evidence of many residents, they found Malgelir’s betrothed, sitting in a comfortable chair and rummaging in her sewing basket.

“Good morrow, Rían! Are you really certain you want to go through with your marriage to that madman?” He pointed in the direction Malgelir and his “prey” had taken.

“Well, at least life will never be boring!” she answered, rolling her eyes comically. “Hello you two! What brings you here so early?”

Beregond told her about his changed plans for the day, and her brow creased in sympathy. She and Iorlas were close – in fact Beregond and Faelivrin had at one time hoped they might become a couple, but it had never happened, and when Malgelir had come to the city from the Cair Andros garrison three years past, it had quickly become apparent that he and Rían had found their match in each other.

“I hope Iorlas has not re-injured his arm too badly! I am going to see him on the morrow or the day after; would you please send him my regards should you visit him later today? The others have gone down to the Pelennor to help with the clearing-up, and Malgelir is _supposed_ to act the responsible adult and mind the children...” She rolled her eyes once more, and said, at Beregond’s guffaw, “Yes, quite! I do not know _what_ my mother thought she was doing! I believe Diegan and Dianora are in their room with Eddard and the baby... Eddard was too tired to play with the other children, a tooth has been plaguing him the last couple of days. Ah, I just remembered: You have not yet made the acquaintance of little Raina, have you?”

Beregond shook his head, then lifted his hand in farewell and went with Bergil to the chamber Rían had indicated. There they found indeed Dianora seated on the great chest at the foot of the bed, nursing the baby under a cloth drawn modestly around her shoulders, Eddard leaning against her with half-closed eyes. Diegan sat opposite them, wounded leg stretched out, a small smile on his lips.

Beregond almost regretted intruding upon this homely scene, but just at that moment the others took notice of them.

After mutual greetings, Beregond turned to Eddard. “Bergil has brought something to show you, Eddard. I am certain he will allow you to play with it, too.”

Bergil lifted his hand holding the horse, and said, winking at the boy, who had become alert again at the sight of the visitors, “Of course: that is why I brought it with me, after all!”

Juggling the baby for its burp, Dianora prompted, “Eddard, go play with Bergil in the nursery. When the others return, you can go outside if you want to.”

“Oh, may I see the baby first?” asked Bergil.

“Of course.” Dianora obligingly turned sideways. Snuggled now in her mother’s arms with the boneless grace of small infants, the little girl was yawning widely, tired from the strenuous endeavour of feeding. “Say hello to Beregond and Bergil, chick!”

Little Raina had the dark eyes and swarthy skin of her mother who was from the hill-folk of Lebennin, but the raven-black hair of her father, curling around her sweet little face. The two strange faces moved her to wave her arms around, which made Bergil tentatively reach a finger towards her. It was swiftly enfolded in one tiny hand, although she let go when her mother turned her around again.

Beregond explained once more the reason for their unexpected visit, and it was quickly agreed that Bergil would stay here until his father would come and fetch him.

“Did Iorlas already tell you about Balanoth?” asked Diegan then.

“No! You mean Balanoth son of Halladar? What about him?” Beregond straightened up from where he had sat down on the edge of a linen chest, and Bergil, too, pricked his ears at the mention of his uncle’s hero.

“Hm, well, perhaps he had not known of it yet when you last visited. From what I hear, two days past, King Elessar apparently wrote a _personal_ invitation to Balanoth to come to the Citadel. And imagine – he actually _came_ , back from his retirement on his estates! It is also said that he has taken up residence in his town house again, so it seems he intends to stay for a while. I would never have thought it possible after that uproar with Lord Denethor back then...” Diegan shook his head in bafflement. “I wonder what the King said that made him enter the Citadel once again after he had sworn never to return in his life...”

They indulged in some speculation about the ancient, almost legendary former Ranger and his possible reasons for acceding to the King’s summons, but could only do so for a few more minutes before it was time for Beregond to take his leave and make his own way up to the Citadel at last.

  
~*~*~*~  


The higher he went up the city, using some short-cuts to forego the long, winding main thoroughfare, the less traffic there was in the streets. In contrast, the more he was nearing his destination, the more looks he garnered from passers-by, ranging from mere speculation, to recognition; and from the latter on over the whole range from approval and congratulation, to disapproval, and, at times, open hostility.

Just when a man in the livery of a messenger, who clearly felt rather inimical towards him, seemed ready to accost him – the first one prepared to go this far – a familiar figure came out of a side street and converged on himself as well: It was Mistress Almarian, distributing the same sunny, innocuous smile on him and the messenger both. The latter backed away with a final glare thrown over his shoulder, and Beregond realised that Almarian’s appearance just at that moment had not been quite as coincidental as it had seemed at first.

Steam and a pungent but nevertheless delicious smell was emanating from the big, covered kettle she was drawing behind her on a small trolley, and after greeting her, Beregond offered to take over towing it. She agreed with a grateful nod, and Beregond asked her – over the din of the rattling wheels as they walked on – what victuals she was carrying around so early in the morning.

She put a finger to her mouth and grinned slyly, her bright blue eyes twinkling under her plain, cream-coloured headdress, decorated only with a small stitched garland of ivy leaves. “A _highly_ secret family recipe. My sister told some of her colleagues in the healing stations that it would perk up even the most grievously ill or injured, so the head cook of the Houses of Healing, with whom I am trading recipes from time to time, asked me for this one. But since it is one I will not share, we compromised and I agreed to cook it myself and bring enough for the more adventurous patients.”

They laughed together and for the short stretch to the Houses of Healing Beregond tried to wheedle her secret out of her, grateful to her for not addressing the near-miss of an unpleasant encounter with the messenger. He was no more successful than the cook of the Houses of Healing had been, but at least he managed to obtain a promise from Almarian to prepare some of this wondrous dish for him and Bergil when next they visited The Ship and Bough.

A smile lingered on his lips after he had handed over the trolley when they parted ways again, and it did not leave his face all the way up the street and through the gloomy tunnel to the seventh gate. He did not register the reactions of the guards he encountered, and it was only when he passed the White Tree with his usual reverent bow that he noticed that his scars had finally stopped hurting.

A page was already waiting for him in front of the doors of the White Tower and quickly led him down the corridors to the Steward’s office, where he pointed to a long bench alongside the wall opposite the door and said, “Please wait here, Captain Beregond. Warden Húrin had some unexpected business with the Steward. Lord Faramir apologises for the delay.”

He did as requested, feeling a little odd at this still unfamiliar address, while the page knocked at the door, opened it upon a call from within, and announced Beregond’s arrival. When the page closed the door again, he turned to him once more and asked, “May I offer you some refreshments in the meantime, sir?”

Beregond declined with thanks and as the page departed, he settled himself for a longer wait.

It was quiet in the hallway and empty. Only a few tapestries hung on the walls here and there to absorb chill and sound, their rich colours faded by time, yet the scenes they depicted still recognisable.

His eyes were drawn to the picture of Steward Cirion sending out the six messengers bearing the desperate call for aid against the Balchoth to the Éothéod (3), but he kept getting distracted by the voices in the Steward’s office. While he could not distinguish words, he recognised Faramir’s calm voice, Húrin’s brisk tones and thought the third voice with the rolling cadences, which kept increasing in volume, might be Rohirric.

His suspicion proved correct when, shortly thereafter, the door was wrenched open and a long-limbed, broad-shouldered warrior stormed out, his long, white-blond braid jerking behind him with the force of his movement.

He halted for the blink of an eye at the sight of Beregond, gave an abrupt nod by way of greeting, and went his way without waiting for a response, leaving Beregond to follow him with his eyes and wonder what had caused this ferocity. He did not know the Rider by name; he only knew he was one of Éomer King’s personal guards.

“See? That is exactly the reason for this... what – third? _fourth_?... complaint!” Beregond could hear Húrin’s words clearly now – evidently the Warden of the Keys had moved to close the door again and had halted beside it. “He has a volatile temper and is rather outrageously rude!” A pause, while Faramir said something low and presumably soothing, then: “To me, ‘blunt’ is something different, Faramir, even for someone from Rohan! His manners go far beyond ‘bluntness’ or even ‘discourtesy’... I really wonder what has possessed King Éomer to leave _him_ of all people behind as a liaison!”

The Steward laughed, and now Beregond was able to discern his words, as well. “If I took a guess, I would say that is _exactly_ the reason why Éomer chose him as his liaison: Éothain is the head of his personal guard, and he needs to learn at least _some_ modicum of diplomacy now that Éomer is king. I think he is also feeling miserable because he was left here and cannot do his duty of protecting Éomer personally – I gather he is fiercely devoted to him... But let us end this discussion: I do not want to keep the good Captain waiting any longer. And thank you for bringing the report from the shipyard about that dromund; my uncle will be ecstatic once he learns he is to receive the ship as a gift from King Elessar.” (4)

Both men burst into laughter, and then the door opened entirely to let the tall figure of Lord Húrin step out with a stack of paper in his hands and a quill behind his right ear as was so often the case. He gave a friendly smile to Beregond, but did not linger to speak, his long legs swiftly carrying him away down the hallway in the direction of his own office, which was just around the corner.

Faramir stood in the doorway, one hand on the handle, and greeted Beregond with just as kindly a smile as the Warden of the Keys had, as he waved him in with the other hand.

Beregond acceded with somewhat weak knees, and followed the Steward into his office

  
~*~*~*~  


“Good morrow to you, Captain.” Faramir indicated the comfortable-looking chair on the other side of the immense oaken desk and took his own place behind it. “If you will excuse me for just one more moment, please, I have to bring these reports into some kind of order...”

Beregond sat as directed. “Of course, my lord. And a good morrow to you, as well.”

Beregond took a surreptitious look around the study while Faramir put the papers into neat stacks to one side of the desk, pausing now and then to take a closer look at one of them, adding quick notes in the margins, or his signature at the bottom. 

The room looked markedly changed from what he recalled from the few instances he had been summoned here by Lord Denethor. It seemed larger and much lighter, which was in great part, but not exclusively, due to the fact that it was almost bare now, the desk one of the few remaining pieces of the dark, heavy furniture favoured by the late Steward. There were a few chests and baskets on the floor along the walls, as well as some objects still draped with protective cloth, doubtless new furnishings for the office. He wondered if the desk would go in the end, as well.

A brief glance at the new Prince of Ithilien revealed that Faramir was completely recovered from his wound and the fever. His pale face had gained some colour and finally lost the gaunt look of the sickbed. His eyes were clear and there seemed to be a new brightness in them, which Beregond suspected had as much to do with a certain White Lady, as with Faramir’s complete convalescence. He was wearing a formal outfit, but had casually loosened the laces at his throat of both tunic and shirt, and rolled up his sleeves a short way.

Finally, Faramir put away the last of the documents, intertwined his fingers and put his hands on the desk, before he looked at Beregond.

“Captain, I thought today we might at least _begin_ to discuss matters concerning the White Company – how it should be built, structured, and maintained, what its duties are going to be, and so forth. I would also like to hear your input concerning the future of Ithilien, not only as it pertains to the Company, but also in more general terms, if not today, then in future discussions, in particular as I am hoping some other people might join us then for at least part of the time.” He smiled a slight, mysterious smile, but continued without elaborating, “First of all, however: Do you have any other questions or difficulties? I know the King’s decision regarding your fate must have come as quite a surprise.”

Did he have any questions? Beregond inwardly shook his head. He had a _lot_ of questions, and the Steward’s open and encouraging expression gave him the nerve to burst out with the one that had occupied his mind the most for the past few days: “My lord, I... I apologise if I... if I failed to understand correctly, and I assure you my question is by no means intended as an objection, merely as a request for clarification, primarily for the sake of my son, but... Am I truly to be exiled from Minas Tirith?”

Faramir stared at him with a blank expression, quite obviously stunned by the question. “But... Why do you think...?” His eyes still on Beregond, his hand reached out towards one of the stacks of papers and drew a parchment from it in front of him. Judging from the elaborate curlicues and the seals and ribbons attached to it, a very important document, which Beregond suspected might be the official copy of his sentence.

After swiftly scanning the lines – it was obvious he was already familiar with the contents – Faramir returned his gaze to him, penetrating but sympathetic. “King Elessar declared that ‘all penalty is remitted’, Captain! (5) I deem exile would constitute a penalty, however – would you not agree?”

Beregond was unable to speak and merely nodded, dazed.

Faramir’s eyes narrowed and he asked, “Just how long have you been living under the assumption you were going to be exiled? No, let me guess – the full four days now since the hearing... But – I do not understand... Have you not received your copy of the decree?”

A slow shake of the head was his answer this time, and Faramir closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and third finger, sighing.

When he opened them again, he said, “I do apologise, Captain Beregond! I will enquire into this matter – and I _will_ find out where the error is to be found, rest assured!” He glanced once more at the document and said in a musing tone, “If all you had to go by was your recollection of the King’s words as he spoke them to you when you were no doubt under much strain and expecting the worst, it is no wonder the significant line ‘all penalty is remitted’ might have escaped your notice, in particular considering the ominous words which came directly before them, am I correct?”

“Yes, my lord.” Beregond rubbed his sweating hands on his thighs, still feeling rather tongue-tied and light-headed. In an effort not to appear simple-minded, as well, what with his short answers so far, he said, “I am sure there was no malice behind the missing document, my lord, merely a clerical error.”

“You are most likely correct, Captain, but still I need to get to the root of this: I will also have to check if yours was the only document that went missing. You have the right to have this certificate, and I will ensure you will receive it, however belated.”

He stopped and, with a guarded and at the same time sympathetic expression, gazed searchingly into Beregond’s eyes, while reaching blindly for another sheaf of papers with one hand, and sliding it in front of him.

“I do, however, have other papers here that concern you. Captain Eradan brought your discharge papers.” He paused, cleared his throat, and then resumed in a tone kept carefully matter-of-fact. “You will have to sign them and deliver one copy to him in person. I... I must also ask you to hand in your uniforms to the quartermaster of the Third Company, as well as any pieces of arms or armour not your own.” He was quick to add, “You will, of course, be issued replacements, appropriate to your new posting and rank.”

Once again, Beregond was at a loss for words, and managed only a short nod. With the reality of the discharge papers lying in front of him, seeming to mock him with their neat black lines on crisp white paper, and the prospect of having to give up every article that linked him to his company, his comrades and the career he had pursued diligently over so many years, the finality of the end of this part of his life began to sink in at long last. In comparison to the exile he had been dreading, this might perhaps not be a penalty – in particular considering that a new, honourable task was already awaiting him – but it _felt_ like a penalty, at least at this moment.

  
~*~*~*~  


Faramir had fallen silent, giving him some moments to himself to absorb it all. After a while, he asked calmly, “May I offer you some refreshments, Captain, before we proceed?”

Beregond took a deep breath, but before any words left him, there was a knock on the door.

The Steward appeared somewhat vexed at the interruption, but nevertheless called his permission to enter.

Another page entered the office and made a neat little bow. “My lord, Lord Angbor has arrived back from Lamedon; he is currently in council with the King but enquires whether he might invite you to dine with him at his residence tonight, at a time of your convenience.”

Faramir’s eyes lit up. “Please tell him I happily accept the invitation, and I will come by...” he trailed of, mentally riffling through a list of his duties, it seemed, then resumed, “at the twelfth hour.“

The page ducked his head in acknowledgement and made to dash off, but Faramir halted him with a gesture, his eyes on Beregond, questioning.

Beregond thought a moment, then asked for some cider, whereupon Faramir told the page to bring a jug of cider for the captain, a bottle of light white wine for himself and, grinning suddenly as if the wine had reminded him of something, added, “You may also tell Lord Angbor I expect to be served the finest vintage from his wine cellar – he will know the reason!”

The page returned the grin, quite against the rules of correct behaviour for a page, and departed for his various errands.

Faramir chuckled under his breath, before graciously explaining, “A reminder of a rather inglorious episode of our youth... It involved two adventurous but foolish lads, a dare, and the darkest, dustiest, cob-webbiest corner of the wine-cellar...”

Beregond had to smile himself, trying hard to wrap his mind around the image of a young Faramir sneaking into the wine-cellars with a friend.

While they were waiting, the Steward stood and went to open one of the large clerestory windows that lined one side of the corner office. He stayed there for a moment, letting a stray breeze from above ruffle his raven-dark hair and breathing in the green scent finding its way from the private garden the small, regular windows on the perpendicular wall were facing. Cheerful laughter was heard, and Faramir turned smiling to Beregond.

“The Pheriannath have recently taken to occupying this secluded spot whenever they manage to escape the attention of their numerous admirers. It seems Peregrin and Meriadoc have used their time spent in Minas Tirith on their own well to track down the loveliest corners of the city, and the ones where they are least likely to be disturbed.”

Presently, a knock on the door had him call, “Enter!”, and the page arrived bearing the requested beverages on a tray. He laid out everything on the oaken desk, careful of the numerous stacks of papers, and poured for each of the two men.

He then addressed Faramir, who had just resumed his seat. “My lord, Lord Angbor sends his regards and says he is looking forward to tonight’s dinner.” The boy could not suppress a grin as he added, “He also bade me to pass on his promise that he will be certain to fulfil his obligations at long last, but that he would hope you will be satisfied with a less _uncomfortable_ venue – he assures you that his salon is a perfectly adequate location in which to enjoy a bottle of wine or two.”

There was no doubt in Beregond’s mind that the Lord of Lamedon had regaled the page with a full account of his and Faramir’s exploit; and Faramir’s comically rueful smile as he captured Beregond’s eyes after shooing away the page with a mock-growl made it clear that the Steward was equally aware of it.

Alone once more, both men took up their drinking vessels, but while Faramir sipped at his chased-bronze goblet appreciatively, Beregond merely turned his around and around for long moments.

Finally, he put it down carefully. “My lord,” he began tentatively, “you spoke of the King’s decision as having been a surprise. I... I wonder if it had been one to you as well. I do not know what might have moved him to appoint me as captain of your guard, but you must certainly know that I do not have any command experience. And perhaps... Perhaps you would feel more comfortable with a man who is better known to you.” He paused, took a deep breath, anxiously watching Faramir who was regarding him patiently, clearly prepared to hear him out. He started again, but had to clear his throat before he was able to continue. “A man you _know_ – a man you can be certain will be... _faithful_... in following your orders... I only beg you not to judge me by how I served Lord Denethor at the last. It was certainly not my intent to be disloyal to him, and I would _never_ be disloyal to you, my lord. My actions were no mark of any disregard of Lord Denethor’s rule. I would _never_ presume to make myself judge of the decisions of my superiors. It was merely...”

“Captain Beregond...”

“...I had to... I just could not...” His speech had become faster and faster towards the end, stuttering and stumbling over the words, too caught up in the flood to notice Faramir’s interruption.

“ _Beregond_ , stop, please!” Faramir set his goblet down and raised both hands to call a halt to his outburst, and this time succeeded.

Beregond covered his mouth with one slightly trembling hand and stared anxiously over it at the Steward.

Faramir lowered his hands, to make a soothing motion with them. “Captain, please – I assure you, such thoughts never _did_ and never _would_ cross my mind!” He had to clear his own throat, discomfiture mingled with deep sorrow flashing over his face. “In fact, I feel remiss as I have never even thanked you for saving my life and risking so much, even your own life, in the process. Thank you, Captain Beregond!” He bowed his head towards Beregond before reaching over with his right hand and taking Beregond’s in a firm grip when he instinctively accepted it.

Beregond felt his neck and cheeks heat in a flush of embarrassment. “Please, my lord, I... You do not need to...” Faramir’s increased the pressure of his hold until Beregond nodded in acquiescence and acceptance of the gratitude, and only then loosened his clasp entirely and put his intertwined fingers once more on the desk in front of him.

They shared an awkward smile, and then both turned to their drink, as if to a refuge. 

When both vessels were put down once more, emptied, Faramir said, turning his clear grey eyes on Beregond with an earnest expression, “Captain, you will perhaps understand why I did not speak about this before your departure for the Black Gate. Once I... Once I knew what had happened, you were no longer within reach. When the King turned to me for counsel in your affair, I presented the facts I knew of the incident, but naturally recused myself from additional proceedings due to my... obvious personal involvement in the matter. Thus I did not speak further about this with King Elessar, but I also felt I should refrain from communicating with you until a decision had been reached.” 

“I understand, my Lord.”

“I am glad that you do, Captain! Once the King, together with the few people he had consulted, had reached his decision, he felt free to turn to me again for my opinion on the matter. He told me of his decision to remit all penalty in your case, but thought some form of concession might be in order, such as a formal discharge from the Guard of the City. At that time, I already knew I was to receive the incredible gift of my new princedom, and I was deliberating about the composition of my principal staff. You are right that I considered appointing a man familiar to me as the head of my guard – you are acquainted with Captain Mablung? But the King and I are in agreement about keeping the Rangers as an independent force in Ithilien, and Mablung is simply too valuable to lose as my successor as Captain of the Rangers... In any case, when King Elessar showed concern about the need for some sort of gesture in your case, I knew I had found my Captain. It was _I_ who suggested this ‘compromise’, of discharging you from the Guards of the Citadel, and re-assigning you to me in Ithilien.”

Faramir reached for the wine and re-filled his goblet. After taking a sip to wet his throat, he continued, an intense look in his eyes as he caught and held Beregond’s own, which had opened wide in surprise at this last revelation. “Captain, I can well imagine that the King’s decision to forego the usual punishment in your case is not welcomed everywhere.” His eyes narrowed as Beregond could not prevent a new flush from burning his face. “Ah, so you have already noticed... This was one more reason why the King suggested that you be released from duty until we would have spoken today, and Captain Eradan concurred. The Captain assured me that while he may be personally glad of how things fell out for you, and that he is sorry to lose you, he is concerned that your staying in the company might cause dissension and disciplinary problems among his men and among the other guards of the city.”

Beregond nodded, very relieved to hear that Captain Eradan bore him no personal ill will.

“Your removal from the Guard of the City could therefore be effective against voices who say there _should_ be some form of punishment.”

Faramir sipped at the goblet once more, and Beregond re-filled his own and immediately downed half of it.

“Things being as they are,” the Steward continued with an ironic smile, “a transfer to Ithilien could actually be regarded as an exile in truth. There are hardly any accommodations, everything will have to be built or re-built from scratch, in particular what will be the chief settlement in Emyn Arnen and the headquarters of the White Company. We will also have to address the infrastructure and buildings in some of the old villages. It will be hard work – and dangerous work. We cannot afford the illusion that, with the Dark Lord’s fall, every evil in the world has also vanished. The Rangers keep encountering Orcs and other enemies who are not all content to flee from the place of their defeat. The land itself, I am sorry to say, has not escaped unscathed: there are poisoned streams; defiled trees and meadows; traps; weapons and other dangers lying around, buried or half-buried, which might hurt the unwary. And for this ‘pioneer work’, if I may call it thus, I need people who are diligent and thorough, who are dependable and prepared for hard work, who can cooperate well with people of all kinds, and who can keep their heads in critical situations or emergencies. These are all criteria that fit with what I knew of you from my own few observations, confirmed by what your superiors or your comrades have reported to me. As for the fact that you do not have command experience: I am convinced that you have the best of qualities and prerequisites to quickly acquire the necessary knowledge. I am, of course, fully prepared to help you in your new task, and to also bring you in contact with people who will do the same.”

Faramir smiled encouragingly at Beregond, who blushed once more, this time at hearing that Faramir and others thought so highly of him.

Both men emptied their drinking vessels a second time, before Faramir resumed, in a very serious mien and tone, “But in _particular_ , Captain Beregond, do I need men who can _use_ their own heads and their own judgement when necessary, even in the face of serious or life-threatening risks to themselves. No matter what the risk. Your actions proved that you are such a man, and eminently suited for the task of Captain of my guard in Ithilien. When I suggested this to the King, he immediately agreed.”

Faramir had apparently finished, and after a few moments, Beregond in a fumbling way tried to express his gratitude at Faramir’s good opinion of him, and his relief and yes, pride, that it had been Faramir’s very own idea to appoint Beregond as head of his guard, not a decision by the King he had merely dutifully accepted.

  
~*~*~*~  


Beregond felt now comfortable enough to reveal to the Steward, albeit in an uncertain, groping way, his own lingering, still unresolved feelings regarding his killing of the three men.

Haltingly, he said, “My lord, I thank you very much for relieving so much of the anxieties about my future that had been weighing on my mind. However, I am also greatly concerned about the future of the three families that are mourning their kin because of me. I know that nothing I could do would in any way take away the loss they suffered because of my actions.” He had to clear his throat to regain control of his voice, but continued resolutely, “Nevertheless, I feel they are owed something from me, even if it can only be a sincere expression of my regret and remorse. And... I am not a wealthy man, but however meagre and inadequate a material recompense can be when lives have been lost, if such small funds as I could contribute might help them in any way...? I am especially concerned about the family of the slain porter, Avadoron, as I have learned that beside his own family, he was also the supporter of his widowed sister and her small son.”

Faramir listened patiently, but at this last suggestion he tipped his head from side to side in a doubtful way. “Captain, of course I can understand your wish, and it truly does you credit,” he said eventually. “But I strongly advise you against taking such a step. The families are having a difficult time right now, not merely due to their loss: For similar reasons as you, the actions of their kinsmen are the subject of much discussion in the city, and from what has been reported to me, several of them already had to endure some unpleasant and upsetting encounters. I know that King Elessar has spoken with them and has offered comfort and help should they need it – and should they accept it. I have long debated myself whether to send my condolences – I do not feel free from responsibility for my part in the death of the three men, myself.” He bowed his head a moment in sorrow and regret.

Beregond wanted to say something, to assure Faramir that he was by no means culpable for what had happened in Rath Dínen, but the Steward, sensing his intentions, stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Let us not go further into this, Captain Beregond. Let me just say that in the end I decided to write letters to the families, after all, as I felt I owed this to them personally, at the very least, but also in my official capacity. Would you be content with writing a short note I might enclose in my own missives?”

Recognising the wisdom in Faramir’s proposal, Beregond agreed to this course of minimal action for the time being, albeit reluctantly and with regret.

The Steward came back to his reasons for choosing Beregond, and revealed to him that a further reason had been Pippin talking about Beregond’s curiosity and openness towards new people and new experiences. Faramir also counted it an asset that Beregond’s ancestors had once dwelt in Ithilien. It was important to him, he stated, that not merely soldiers inhabit his new princedom: he wanted to make it once more a place for families to settle – and what better start than to choose men who had families of their own, but no ties to sunder by starting a new life in Ithilien?

“But for the time being, of course, I need you here in Minas Tirith, readily available for consultations,” Faramir concluded. “You must, however, expect to take frequent trips to various sites in Ithilien, sometimes lasting for several days or even longer. Do you have someone who can watch over your son – Bergil is his name, is it not? – during those times?”

Beregond assured Faramir that yes, indeed, he had friends here in the city, who would be prepared to mind Bergil, or even his father or sister in Lossarnach, in case of longer absences.

Then the men finally started discussing the White Company itself, following Faramir’s suggestions proposed at the start of their meeting. Faramir also summoned a clerk then in order to take notes in addition to those the two men were scribbling down for themselves. It was intense, concentrated work, highly instructive work – and thirsty work, besides, as Beregond found when their drinks had run out without him even noticing. The Steward rang for a servant to replenish them.

They touched on the question in how far the forces of the White Company and the Rangers of Ithilien should coordinate their duties and responsibilities and how far each should have their distinct area. This subject matter was one of several which Faramir proposed to fine-tune in further conferences, and with Captain Mablung, among others. Although the name ‘Balanoth son of Halladar’ was not mentioned, Beregond had the niggling suspicion that this was another of the advisors Faramir had in mind. He was very much looking forward to a meeting, curious if he might find out what could have prompted such a formidable man to leave his self-imposed exile and apparently turn around his categorical refusal about working in _any_ capacity for Gondor’s government ever again.

They broke up the meeting shortly before noon, just in time for lunch. Faramir was to join the King who had invited the delegations of Erebor, Dale and Esgaroth to share his meal, and Beregond was looking forward to spending the rest of the day with Bergil, and Diegan and his family, before it was time for the visit with Iorlas. Although Iorlas had not been stationed under Faramir’s direct command, the former Captain recalled him as Beregond’s brother-in-law and bade him send his regards and his wish for a speedy recovery to one of his Rangers, and declared his intention of looking in on him on one of his next visits to the Houses of Healing. He was amenable to Beregond’s suggestion of Iorlas joining the White Company, although he wanted to wait until he had spoken with him and his commanding officer himself, and until the healers had pronounced him once more fit for duty and released him for good.

It was agreed to meet again in two days’ time, at the same hour. Beregond saluted formally, and when Faramir reached out, smiling, he clasped his arm in a firm grip. Finally, he picked up his discharge papers, holding them gingerly as if he was touching something distasteful –which he was, as far as he was concerned –, nodded to the clerk who returned his greeting with a friendly smile, and left the office, down the hallways and finally out of the White Tower.

However, in front of the great doors, he stopped abruptly as if struck, and took a deep breath. And another one. He glanced around, and chose a path that led between two smaller buildings housing different branches of Gondor’s administration.

Around a few corners, the path led to a secluded place at the parapet of the Citadel. Once there, it seemed as if all strength left his legs, and he leaned heavily against the wall on his right side, his head bowed. On a very remote and detached level of his mind he became aware of the fact that his whole body was shaking.

After long minutes of simply trembling and shaking his head at himself, he slowly calmed down and concentrated on breathing steadily. When he had regained his composure completely, he straightened up, turned around and climbed the battlements, to look out upon the Pelennor Fields, to see the people looking like busy ants from so high up. He let his gaze roam further afield, and at the sight of the Ephel Dúath reflecting the sun under a clear sky, a smile spread over his face: It seemed to him a symbol of everything that had changed – the pall of his doubt had been wiped away just as the Shadow had been diffused, and a bright new future was awaiting him, secure in the knowledge that he possessed the appreciation and trust of his prince.  
Throwing his head back, he let out an exhilarated laugh.

Then he set out to join his son and friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) RotK, The Pyre of Denethor  
> (2) This scene is described in UT, Part Three II (ii), The Ride of Eorl  
> (3) This refers to my drabble [“Transformation”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5033752).  
> (4) RotK, The Steward and the King
> 
> My thanks to my beta readers Gwídhiel and Lady Masterblott.
> 
>  
> 
> _20.01.08_


End file.
